Follow That Same Old Road
by Amorisa
Summary: DG is the only hope of a country laid to ruin by an evil Sorceress. An elaborate, carefully constructed trail awaits her, but will she forge her own path?
1. One

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Dream, Secrets, Paint, Time, Weather_

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**Follow That Same Old Road**

**One**

It all begins much the same way. Her eyes are closed, she's warm and peaceful in sleep. Her mind is a torrent, overtaken by illusive wisps of image and voice. Worlds of beautiful blue glass, of dirt floors and far-off echoes; fruit and smoke and a ferocious bellow of anger. And the woman, with the pale lavender eyes.

The woman whispers words that leave the girl chilled as she awakens.

It haunts her all day, as those kinds of visions always do. She sees that gentle face, hears the faint voice that warns of a dark and stormy future. The girl begins to sketch whenever her fingers are idle. The counter is littered with napkins doodled on with the till pen. The owner is furious.

"Get your head outta the clouds, kid! We got the dinner rush coming in!"

She sweeps together the napkins with her hand and tosses them in the trash.

At night, the _kid's_ dreams take her to a frightening place. She feels like a child, jumping at small noises, reaching out for a hand that isn't there. Something tells her to run, but she never does.

She tells her father of her nightmares, off-handedly one day over breakfast. Her mother is in the kitchen; she'll never say anything was wrong in front of her mother. The woman will work herself into a fret and there'll be no end to the questions and concerns. No, her pop's quiet, contemplative way of mulling things over is what she needs.

"How long's this been going on, DG?"

DG's eyes go up as she thinks back. "A week, maybe?"

Her pop pats her on the shoulder, gives her a comforting smile. "Sounds like you need to lay off the books before bed."

She rolls her eyes a bit, and looks down at her plate as her mother comes in.

That night, he stays up later than his wife and daughter, and stands alone in the blackened front room. Unmoving, he waits and listens. It's after midnight when he hears her, tossing about in her bed. With a sigh, he shakes his head. He hadn't expected this time to come so soon. The girl is still too young.

He doesn't want to go back, if it's truly in him to want or desire anything for himself. He doesn't want to take his baby girl into the middle of all that. However, he has no say in the matter. He never has.

* * *

***

* * *

When DG arrives home the next day after her shift at the diner, she's in a mood. A speeding ticket tucked into her back pocket mocks her with its inconsequential presence. She showers, changes, and pins back her hair; she takes her sketchpad in hand, a pencil safely stowed in the coils. Through the kitchen, out the door before her mother notices that she's come downstairs; she's down the steps and off the porch before her mother can come after her.

She spends a part of the afternoon with her father before finally returning to the house to face her mother. She waits for a slew of negativity about the ticket, about the trip out to the farm the deputy sheriff has surely already made, but it never comes. Her mother is silent, shifting about the porch watering the already damp flower-boxes, flipping over cushions, menial tasks that keep the hands busy.

Her father comes out of the house; the screen door slams shut behind him.

"Baby girl, we've been meaning to have a talk with you."

DG braces herself; she's prepared herself for the nagging of her mother, she can't handle the disappointment of her father.

"What is it?"

"I don't know how easily you're gonna take any of this."

A nervous smile ghosts over her lips. "Depends. You'd better just tell me, you're starting to freak me out a little here, Popsicle."

He shakes his head, takes a deep breath. There's much in his head he's had programmed in there for far too long, but he can't start there, his baby girl would never believe. If he startles her too much, if he piles too much onto her young shoulders, she'll buck and cry and run.

So he begins slow. He speaks of home, places he was promised she wouldn't remember until it was time. He tells her about the woman who had turned the girl over to his care, so many annuals before. It's the first time since crossing over that he lets the distinctive word slip out. He doubts the girl catches it in the hazy mire her mind must be in.

DG stares blankly at him. There are tears brimming in her big blue eyes. To her credit, she doesn't let them spill, no she's not a crier. She inhales slowly, centering herself. She turns her head to look down the long road the leads away from the farm to the greater world beyond, as if the answers lay out there, somewhere. Her eyes dart about in a peculiar way before she anchors them on her caregivers; no longer her 'parents' in the strictest sense, no longer doers of good.

"DG–"

But it's too late, the kid's feet are carrying her away. Wordlessly, she runs. Always running.

He looks at his wife; she sighs and shakes her head. "You always go," she says, gesturing him away with her hands.

Up in the tiny attic loft, the girl is curled up on her bed. There's an open suitcase beside her, but nothing in it.

With a frown, he regards her seriously. "Can't pack a bag for where we're going, baby girl. Can't take your bike, either."

She wrinkles her nose at him disbelievingly. Eventually, she'll forgive him, he has no worry about it and doesn't spare a second to think further on it. Gods-willing, there will be plenty of time in the future to mend.

"What if I don't want to go?" she asks; its an attempt at a bluff and a poor one at that. He sees the resolution in her face, plain as day. She's going; she's always been too curious for her own good.

* * *

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* * *

The time to doubt comes, and then passes. DG watches from door-frames as her parents close up the house.

Her pop is outside, moving the wicker furniture under the porch. The flower boxes will come inside when he's finished, she's seen him go through this routine before. He's preparing for a storm. Images from her dreams taunt her, the voice of the woman they say is her _real_ mother.

DG approaches the only woman she remembers taking care of her. "What is her name?"

"I don't know," her mother says shortly.

"Was she from Milltown, too?" DG asks.

Her mother sighs. "No, DG, of course not!" She laughs as if it's an absurd thought. "She came to us there; I don't know what became of her after we left."

"Well, why did we leave? It's our home."

"Our home, yes. Not yours. Now, would you be a dear and lock up the attic windows?" her mother evades, giving her a nudge on the shoulder. Her lips are set into a firm line; it's unlikely any more words will pass through them, so DG does as she's bid. She locks up her windows and closes the curtains to the failing light of afternoon.

In the dusty orange glow of the attic, she looks up at the paintings and sketches that paper the ceiling. Towering cityscapes, silhouettes of great mountains, and hot-air balloons. She's drawn these same pictures over and over again for as long as she can remember. Her dream life.

Her pop mounts the stairs. "You about ready to hit the bricks, baby girl?"

"That's a strange expression," she says with a tiny quirk to her mouth. She reaches up to run a finger over the watercolour hanging next to her bed. The lakeside city in clear morning light.

"You'll be hearing more of them in the next few days, you can count on it," he replies with an easy smile. "Now let's get downstairs, Em's about to wear a track in the floor waiting on us."

DG stays planted, her finger tracing the hills that shelter the lake. The lake has a name, she's sure of it; she can almost grasp it sometimes, as she stares at the still waters and imagines them lapping gently.

"You ready, Deeg?"

She turns away from the painting. "No," she admits, but follows after her pop anyway.

* * *

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At the center of a barren wasteland is a tower; it is a contradiction of architectural grandeur and industrial design. Chimneys belch black smoke while windowpanes of pale green glass glint in the bright light of twin suns.

Inside the tower is a complex maze of machinery; levels of prison cells sit above, half-full of starved prisoners who have forgotten the taste of fresh-air, their lungs filled with fine dust. At the top of this empire, coldly elaborate rooms of marble serve she who rules all.

On her intimidating throne, she taps her black-painted fingernails on the copper armrest. She is frowning, and it makes her beautiful, stately face frightening.

"Seven days, General. Only seven."

"More time is needed, Sorceress. The Resistance –"

She stands, effectively cutting off the general's excuses. "The Resistance," she says with a derisive laugh. "Farmers and peasants are no match for my army, no matter the number of these resistant vermin."

"Their leader has led two successful ambushes against our supply trains in the past week alone."

She raises a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. "And yet you tell me the arrogant bastard who leads these peasants cannot be found? Are you telling me that my enemies are now supplied with _my_ weapons and armour?"

The general says nothing.

The Sorceress puts a hand to her forehead in a delicate gesture. "The Emerald, General. It must be found. There is no power greater than that of the Emerald."

"Yes, Sorceress. All our efforts are concentrated on finding the stone," he assures her.

"It's not enough," she snaps. She steps down off the dais, walking closer to her general. The man forces himself not to cringe back away from her. It's a noticeable movement, and she smirks. "Conscript young men from Central City. Fourteen annuals and older. I want as many available as possible searching for my Emerald."

The general nods. His nephew is fifteen, will be dragged out, it will kill his sister, but still he agrees. He has no choice. "Your will be done, Sorceress."

She is placated for the moment. She steps back up on the dais, assisted by her advisor who stands quietly by as she screams and whines and cajoles with her general to complete her objectives. Seven days, its not enough time, she knows this as she sits back in her throne and tries to ignore the tiny, scared voice that rings constantly in the back of her mind.

After the general leaves, taking his men with him with a snap of his fingers, the advisor approaches the right side of the Sorceress, placing a careful hand on the back of the throne.

"Sorceress, your spies in the city have brought no word yet of the old man."

Her lips thin into an angry line. A visible twitch in her cheek begins, and the advisor recoils ever so slightly. "Until the stone is in my possession, he is of no concern."

"There are rumours that the Resistance seek to rally him against you."

She waves a hand, and chuckles lightly; its a chilling, cruel sound. "Please, do not mock me with that old man's broken power. Even without the stone, he is of _no_ threat."

"The Viewers are still certain you will find the stone before the double eclipse," the advisor offers hopefully.

"The word of those beasts is not enough."

Nothing ever is.

"I want Lylo to read again," she says and casts her eyes downward. "_It will be found, just be patient,_" she whispers to herself. "_It's been too long to fail again._"

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The sun is low in the sky when DG hops the fence into the abandoned pasture attached to the Kelley land, closely sandwiched between her pop and her mother. The sun sinks ever closer to the horizon as her pop leads them far into the meadow. The lights of the Kelley farm are but pinpricks in the distance.

"You told me never to trespass," DG mutters in a sing-song voice, trying to lighten the mood. Her pop is somber, and that's just not like him; her mother hasn't said a word since locking up the back door.

"By the time Wayne Kelley calls Gulch out from the station, we'll be long gone," her pop says grimly. There's no smile to his words, and it makes her steps heavier.

"I don't see why we have to be out in the middle of nowhere."

He chuckles low. "Don't want to stir up any trouble," he tells her. "And we definitely don't want to be picking up any hitchers."

She doesn't understand what he means, so she doesn't reply. The sky was clear when they'd left the house; now, clouds are rolling across the heavens, filtering the dying rays of the sun. The warm summer breeze has all but stopped, and the air has become still. It tastes of parched grass, making her mouth sticky and dry.

"Sky's just about perfect," her mother says quietly, "like she's been expecting it."

"Sky on this side ain't bright enough to expect anything," her pop replies. He's digging into the pocket of his overalls now, coming up with small bottle made of clear glass; its got a rectangular cut and a cork shoved in its short neck. There is nothing remarkable about the bottle, but the contents... it gives a flash as if a lightning bug is caught inside. DG steps closer, leaning her nose into the glass as her pop holds it up for her to see; inside, it's constantly moving, shifts of gray and black. Another flash from inside the bottle comes, and DG lurches back as her eyes catch the minute streak of forked lightning.

"What is it?" she asks, still mesmerized by the swirls of cloud, the sky above forgotten by the perfect replica caught in the bottle. She wonders how the tiny chunk of cork is enough to contain the power.

"Its a travel storm," her pop tells her. He regards her blank stare with an easy smile for a moment before adding, "Think of it as meteorological alc– chemistry."

The words fall out of her mouth before she can think to stop them. "A storm is coming."

Her mother frets silently, but her pop looks her straight in the eye. "I've got a feeling this is just the beginning, baby girl."

The clouds almost completely cover the sky now as she looks up; darkness is behind her as she faces the sun, and when she turns away from the setting of it, she imagines the light simply going away.

"You might wanna hold onto your mom," her pop says by way of a warning as he grips the glass bottle firmly in his fist. He raises his hand, and she can tell that he's hesitant to do what he's about to. When she looks down at the bed of yellow grass, she doesn't know what he's planning; the brittle grasses will cushion the bottle's drop.

She's wrong.

With one strong swing of his arm, her pop throws the bottle down. She hears the shatter of the glass, but walls of black shoot up around her as a roar sounds in her ears so deafening she's certain she'll never be rid of the rush of wind. She reaches out, calling out for her pop as she's torn off her feet and tossed to the mercy of the gale.


	2. Two

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Noise, Under, Glimmer, Point, Sentry (Author's Choice)  
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**Two**

It's dark when she wakes up; it surrounds her, blankets her, and makes her cold. There is nothing around her, only a lonely world cloaked in a dark veil. Slowly, she realizes she can see a bit, which is something at least. She puts her palms flat on the ground to push herself up, but her hands meet dirt and tree-needles. There is no bed of grass. Above her, the navy sky is cast with stars, the moon low enough to play peek-a-boo through the silhouettes of the trees that surround her.

She's in a forest, and that means she's far from home.

She sits up slowly; listening for movement, for whispers, for the sound of water. Only the wind greets her with a low whistle.

She's never spent much time in the woods, but it doesn't take much expertise to know she's alone. She doesn't understand _how_ she came to be alone, until the logic of travelling by tornado leads her to the conclusion that they've all been separated. Her parents wouldn't leave her alone, not in this strange place.

She gets up and walks a slow circle. Her eyes are adjusting but there's not much difference. Rock, fallen log, trees numbered one through seven. Another stone, and then another, jutting up out of the ground, anchored. Finally, she stops at the sturdiest tree and sags to the ground.

The moon doesn't move, but another soon rises above it. She wants to be dreaming, but she knows she's not. She really isn't home any more, not in Kansas, not anywhere she's ever heard of. Two moons, what strange fortune. She sits unmoving, her heart feeling the weight of several hours passing but her brain is telling her sensibly that it may be closer to just one.

When her ears are finally perked toward the intrusion of her borders, she's mentally prepared. She hears them coming, which means what stalks her is not an animal. Footsteps, too many to discern a proper number; the walkers do nothing to cover the sound they make, and DG is unsure if this worries her or not. Maybe she's being underestimated, or perhaps those that creep up on her are confident enough in her helplessness.

There's a thick branch in her lap, one she found during all her stumbling; it's gnarled but mostly straight, a decent club in a pinch. She's resourceful, although there are precious few options.

"What be this wretched creature?" asks the first voice, cutting through the night around her. It makes her jump despite herself, and she's ashamed because the voice isn't at all fearsome, or threatening.

"Perhaps a spy from the west, at the Witch's behest," says a second voice; though there is fierce conviction in the tone, the lyrical pitch of the voice makes her question her invaders.

There is a flare of light as a torch is lit, and then another. She scrambles to her feet to find herself surrounded by the strangest folk she's ever laid eyes on. Tiny men streaked with war-paint, weapons in their hands and on their belts and strapped to their ankles. Warriors, all pointing spears and axes at her. She raises her weapon of choice in defence.

She tries to remember what her pop told her, but she's jarred by the bright colours of their faces.

"My name is DG," she says. "I've been separated from my family. I'm lost."

"Do you often wander the woods at night, child?" the seeming-leader asks as he steps forward; he hangs his axe on his belt and regards her with openly suspicious eyes that seem to bug out of his red-painted face.

"I wasn't wandering," she defends, "I was sitting here waiting for help or morning, whichever came first."

"Waiting for the Sorceress, no doubt!" pipes up the blue-dyed second-in-command. "A long way off from the Old Brick Route."

"I don't know anything about a Sorceress," she says honestly.

The leader snorts in disbelief, and speaks to one of the men at his back. "Bind her hands and bring her to the camp. Leave her on the ground among the insects and the damp. Come morning, if she lives, we shall see."

* * *

She's thrown to the ground with little force, but her knee connects with a tree root, and she can barely bite back the shout of surprise. She's untied and left alone, they don't expect her to go anywhere, and if they do, they doubt she'll get far. The malicious little toad-warriors are hostile and angry, and scared of some witch.

She'd woken up that morning in her bed in the attic in Kansas believing that witches were contained to fairy stories, along with pygmy bounty hunters painted up like it's Halloween. The cyclone-in-a-bottle has tossed all her beliefs to the wind, as it were. Now, she learns as she goes.

So she pays attention.

It's hard to see the stars because of the lights strung through the trees. The tiny sparks dance like flames, which seems absurd when she thinks about it.

There are murmurs and dull footsteps above her. Every once in a while, there's a laugh, high-pitched and happy, unrestrained. She grows used to these sounds and lets them lull her; one by one, the lights above her go out, and the voices grow dim before ceasing all together.

It's dark, and a little cold. She turns the collar of her leather jacket up; the fleece rubs against her chin and irritates her skin.

She watches the path of the moon when there is no longer a sign of life in the trees. She can make out the stars again; she searches for Polaris, though it's a fool's notion. What about the two moons doesn't tell her she's not looking at the same sky? Maybe she's being childishly hopeful.

It hits her after a few hours, how utterly alone she is. She's not sure where to go or what to do. When the dawn breaks, she might very well be killed. She can't stumble out of the woods in the dark.

Her pop had told her about the road the little man had mentioned. _The Old Road_, she can hear Popsicle's voice clear in her head, and it warms her. _All of life's answers can be found along the Old Road._

This road is meant to lead her somewhere. To Milltown. She needs to get there. She knows that's where her parents will head, if they've safely touched down at all.

She tries to sleep curled up on the ground, but after a while, she rises again and backs up against a tree. She puts her hands in her hair and fights off the tears of tension that want to betray her. Yes, she might be alone in a strange land, there might be a witch about and bloodthirsty little gnomes out nipping at her heels, but it's no reason to cry.

A few tears leak; a hitching sob or two. She gains control over it fast, but not before the gentle creaking of ropes above her head gives way to a soft voice.

"_Hey... hey! It's okay, don't cry. No reason to cry on a nice night like this!"_

"Who's there?" DG hisses; she's distracted from her tears for a moment.

"_Shh. It's okay, don't be scared. No reason to be scared on a nice night like this!"_

"You said that already." She looks up into the darkness, seeing nothing but shadows and stars.

_

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_

The reading room is filled with electricity, and she can feel it caressing her body. Her alchemists work meticulously, preparing their subject while she paces the room impatiently, listening to the beast strapped to the chair whimper in fear and mental exhaustion.

"We are ready, Sorceress."

She walks slowly to the center of the room. She runs her fingernails along the glass tank, the faint screech drowned out by the droning of the mechanics that surround them. The pillars of magic and science meet in this room and she is in control of it all.

"Tell me of my future," she whispers when she reaches the Viewer. He glances at her uncertainly. His breathing is quick; he's scared. Never too scared to give her what she wants.

The Viewer closes his eyes. He gasps, and there is a flash of white light within the tank. In a moment, a clear image swims into focus. It glows green, and the brilliance and beauty of it stuns her into silence. Her stone, her Emerald. Her _birthright_.

"You cannot see where it is?" she asks; she knows the answer to this, but still she pressures, still she will have him beaten if he does not have the power to break through the magics protecting the stone.

"N-no," he stammers. His eyes cut toward the alchemist standing at his shoulder, an electric prod in his hands. The Viewer knows the bite of this menace very well, and he shifts uncomfortably under his restraints. He screws his eyes tighter, and his breathing ceases all together as the Emerald disappears from the tank and is replaced by an ever-changing cloud of light and mist.

"Your end comes!" he shrieks suddenly.

The reaction in the reading room is immediate: the alchemist sets upon the bound Viewer, shocking him into dull submission with the electric wand. The Viewer sobs quietly for a moment before his body jerks against its restraints. He sits rigidly in the chair as light bursts within the tank and the Emerald becomes visible again.

"The one to light the way approaches," Lylo mutters, turning his hands over and staring at his gloved palms. The Sorceress pays no mind to the Viewer, however, as her gaze is drawn once again to the tank. It isn't the image of her most sought out treasure that pulls her, it's the new image imposing itself over the Emerald, which soon disappears into obscurity as a pale face in profile replaces it.

A girl; pale, round-faced, tumbling dark hair.

"Who is she?" the Sorceress demands, turning on the Viewer and coming closer to his chair than she ever has before. She all but leans over him as she barks again, _"Who is she?"_

The Viewer trembles beneath the hard gaze of the Sorceress. He tries most valiantly to lock eyes with her, but he only catches sight of the black tattoos that spread across her chest before dropping his eyes pathetically. "Only one," he whispers.

The Sorceress straightens. "What did you say?"

"Only one, one alone. Only one," he repeats.

_

* * *

  
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DG is snatched from sleep by something bouncing off the top of her head.

Her bleary eyes take in her surroundings as she sits up properly, just in time for another projectile to hit. Crying out, she sees it roll across the ground in front of her. It's a pine-cone, but it's been painted a light shade of true blue. A third is fired, but it pings into the tree above her head. She looks up to see a group of children above her on a rope bridge, giggling amongst themselves as they pelt her with pine-cones.

"_Hey, leave her alone!"_ comes a familiar shout.

One of the itty-bitty bullies shrieks in delight. "It speaks!" The children run off together from one precarious rope-bridge to another, leaving DG to wonder what is happening as she pulls herself to her feet.

"Hey!" she calls, letting her head fall back to look up. Between a maze of bridges hanging from the trees is some sort of free swinging structure, connected to nothing in particular. A cage.

There's a bit of scuffling as the cage jumps this way and that, before a face pokes out the hole in the bottom. He seems friendly enough, and at least he's smiling.

"Hello down there!"

"Was that you last night?"

"Last night?" he asks, puzzled. "It might very well have been, but I don't remember. See –"

"Quiet down, Headcase!" snaps the odious little leader as he walks easily along the rope bridge; it swings and sways beneath his feet, and he moves as if on steady ground. His second-in-command is right behind him. "You there! Girl! What are you doing this far east?"

She tilts her head back a little more. "I told you, I got lost."

"There are no human towns left in the east. Where are you going?"

"Um, Milltown? What do you mean, no human t–"

"Just follow the Old Brick Route," the red-faced leader says.

"How do I find it?"

The second-in-command breaks into laughter. "How does she find it? How came us by this twit?"

DG is offended. "Hey, I'm just a tourist! Just tell me which way to go and I'll get out of your hair!"

"I can show her!" pipes up the man in the cage, the one the leader calls 'Headcase'. "I know the way!"

The second-in-command's laughs louder, wiping at his eye. "Oh, happy day! We can send them both away. If we catch them again, we use the blades on them."

The leader is more reserved. "You can't protect her, Headcase. Milltown sits past the Fields."

The man in the cage gives a squeak. "The Fields. You mean... _The_ Fields? You know, that might be the reason I'm still in the east. I couldn't figure it out, why I was here I mean, but when you say 'fields' I get the nastiest cold dread in the pit of my stomach so I do believe –"

"Quiet, brainless fool!" shouts the leader. "Oh, to be rid of two headaches in one morning."

DG watches as the man in the cage is released. He joins her on the ground after clambering gracelessly down a ladder. He might be the oddest man she's ever laid eyes on. A thick zipper cuts through the top of his head; it's closed and she finds herself very grateful for this. Her imagination is too vivid as it is without the help of her new reality.

"To reach Milltown, go west," says the leader from his position above her. He does not join them on the ground, and DG gets the funny feeling that he will not lower himself to do so. She'll be glad to leave these nasty little feather-fiends behind.

"How come you don't rhyme and your friend does?" the man called Headcase asks the red-painted leader.

He gives a scowl, and grumbles loud enough for DG to hear him from the ground. "Good luck," he says to her, before waving her off. "You're going to need it with him in tow."

_

* * *

  
_

Her new friend is clumsy. And chatty. She likes him. His name is Glitch, but he doesn't think it's his real name. He hated the cage but doesn't know why he was in there. He knows the way to Central City, wherever that is, he just needs a minute. But then he moves onto something else, and before she knows it, the whole morning is almost gone.

The bricks were easy to find, and they are easy to follow. Glitch wants to walk slowly because there's no hurry, but yes, she's in quite a hurry. She needs to get to Milltown, she needs to know if her parents are all right.

"Can I ask you something?" she ventures.

"Is it about my zipper?"

"It might be."

Glitch laughs. "I kinda like it."

She stops and chuckles, because she thinks he's joking. When she sees the serious look on his boyish face, she's immediately contrite. "Why?" she asks.

"I don't know if you've noticed," he says quietly, "but it's a bit dark around here at times. I have a feeling I don't want to remember what's happened to me." He reaches up and touches his zipper delicately, near the seam on his forehead. Then he shrugs and smiles.

She has the urge to hug him, but refrains. Instead, she touches his shoulder briefly and mirrors the smile he's given her.

There's a sound then, and she's not sure what it is. She looks around as it sounds a second time. It's sharp and clear, but small. She sees the dog just as it barks the third time, its two front paws coming up off the ground in its excitement to get their attention. And it _is_ trying to get their attention, because when she points the dog out to Glitch, it comes tearing down the hillside to the bricks and jumps up with its muddy paws against her knee.

"Hello," she greets the dog with a smile.

Glitch hunkers down and gives the dog a good scratch behind the ears. "Good boy!" After sniffing curiously at Glitch's wrist, the dog bounds away from them, back up the hill away from the brick road. "Twitchy little thing, isn't he?" Glitch muses, watching after the dog with a bemused look on his face.

The dog watches them intently from its perch atop the hill. In the stillness of the day, they can hear it growl impatiently. A dog with an agenda, what a strange place, DG thinks. Nevertheless, she climbs the hill, winding her way between the trees to meet the little dog. It – he – jumps happily at her.

"I think he wants us to follow him!" she calls down to Glitch.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you not to talk to strangers?" comes his incredulous reply.

DG grins down at the dog. "You're not a stranger, are you?" she asks him. Why she thinks the dog's face is friendly, she's not sure, but she's never heard of a pup playing the villain.

She glances down the hill to the yellow brick route ambling its way lazily through the trees. The dog is skipping ahead now, down the other side of the hill. In the distance she can see a ribbon of grey water snaking through a marsh-field, and a roof with a sturdy chimney poking up near the edge of a clearing.

It's a good twenty minute walk. Maybe thirty, she readjusts as she watches Glitch stumble up the hill after her.

She turns back to the cabin by the creek. If she squints her eyes, she can make out a thin stream of blue smoke rising from the chimney.


	3. Three

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Split, Rust, Spring, Path, Dusk_

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**Follow That Same Old Road**

**Three**

The dog disappears into the woods as DG and Glitch crest another hill. There's a distant bark, and she follows it, her companion ambling easily behind. She can't see the dog nor can she hear him, but there are new sounds to occupy her ears and lead her on.

Water, wind, wide open space... and the unmistakable sound of an axe unfailingly cleaving a log in two.

She follows the dull sound of the axe slowly. When she rounds the corner and sees him for the first time, he's bringing the axe down from a high, practised arc. The log splits cleanly, and her eyes follow up from the axehead to the haft to the hands gripping it. Forearm, shirtsleeve, shoulder, and finally the most serious face she's ever encountered in her life. Blue eyes pierce her.

She doesn't know that he's heard them coming for quite a ways, she doesn't know that he saw them before they saw him, doesn't know that he's already waved off any potential risk. Before she can even think about politely introducing herself, the man plants the axehead into the woodblock and brushes off his hands.

"You all right there, kid?"

She considers him; his voice is deep, the kind you wouldn't dare disobey – if you were her, of course. She doesn't listen to anyone but herself – and her pop – and never has.

"I'm fine, I think," she says. She stands erect with Glitch at her back. "Do you think that –"

"This headcase ain't givin' you any trouble?"

She smiles, and loops her arms through Glitch's. He gives a nervous titter. "No, why would he?"

The man shakes his head slowly, as if annoyed with her answer. "Somethin' I can help you two with, if it isn't trouble you're in?"

She still wonders why the man would automatically assume she's in trouble, but she lets it pass. "I'm DG," she says by way of introduction, but she doesn't hold out her hand, nor does the man offer his own.

Her name makes him blink; it's a small response, but she catches it. He hides it away in a glare that penetrates her defences and sees that she's just a girl, and while she might not be small or alone or afraid, she's unsure of what she's doing.

"Wyatt Cain," he offers, and then there's a beat of silence. "Where're you two headed, anyway?"

"Milltown," she says without hesitation.

He snorts. "Really." He thinks she's joking, and waits for her to give the real answer.

"Really." She's deadpan, and he raises an eyebrow.

Mr. Cain shakes his head again. "Saw an older pair makin' their way towards the fields early this morning."

Her entire face lights up. She can't exactly help it. "You did? What did they look like? Was it a man and a –"

"Hold your horses, kid," he says, raising a hand to cease her barrage of questions. "We can talk over a bit of lunch. Don't want to attract any undue attention, sky as clear as it is." He glances up, and her eyes follow. It's a beautiful day, the two suns heading their separate ways across the pale blue sky. She's never quite seen a sight like it, and it stirs something inside of her.

* * *

She hadn't realized how hungry she is until she hears Mr. Cain rummaging around in the kitchen. Domestic sounds that remind her of Kansas and her mother – not her _true_ mother of course, though she's trying to remember anything about the woman they say is her true mother that isn't her scared, pale face and her weather warnings.

Mr. Cain sends her out back to the water pump. Glitch is already there, washing his hands meticulously. It seems funny that his hands are so clean when his clothes are in tatters. When Glitch is safely inside the back door of the cabin, she stands and shields her eyes so she might take another look at the suns.

It's just after midday, and it seems the twins are approaching to cross the other's path in the sky. They aren't on a collision course, and the singular moon fixed in the sky won't be caught in the crossfire. It's almost perfect.

Footsteps approach, not the light bounce of Glitch but heavier boots. "Will they eclipse?" she asks, not turning around, not looking away from the suns even though she's seeing spots.

"Where've you been that you haven't been dreadin' it like the rest of the Zone for the past nine annuals?"

_Annuals. _That word again. She turns to face Mr. Cain.

"Out of the country," she says evasively.

"Pretty poor story."

She smiles. "I'll come up with a better one after lunch. So, will there be an eclipse?"

"Yeah," he says, and his voice is gravelly. "Sometime in the next week. You picked a helluva time to come back to the O.Z."

There's another grin on her face before she can stop it, but it's empty of any emotion. The one time she'd done what she was told, and look where she's landed. In a stranger's backyard, in the country supposed to be her birthplace, looking for her foster parents so they can find out what's happened to her real mother. It's messy and complicated and too much can go wrong. What if her mother is already dead?

There's a rustling in the long grass, and the little dog that had led the way appears and gives them a single bark.

"Hey puppy," she says, and kneels down to hold out a hand to him. "Is he your wife's dog?"

"Why would you assume I have a wife?" Mr. Cain snaps so suddenly that she shakes a bit, and has to swallow hard before speaking.

"Well, um – he seems a bit small a dog for a guy like you," she says contritely, "and um – well, you're wearing a wedding ring. I'm sorry if I –"

"No," he says with a sigh. "Don't apologize. Just get in the house, and after you're fed, we can head out."

She crooks a suspicious eyebrow. "We?"

"Yeah," he tells her, and then heaves another sigh, this one deeper, like he can't believe what he's doing or agreeing to. "You two are gonna need all the help you can get to cross the fields before dark."

She nods gratefully, even though she doesn't understand his motives for helping. "Thank you."

"Get inside," he says, and jerks his head toward the house. As she's crossing the yard, her eyes catch a glint around the side of the house. She slows, and sees it fully for only a moment before Mr. Cain is nudging her toward the door.

It's an old iron suit leaning up against the side of the house, covered by the tendrils of ivy that drape down from the roof. Rusted and forgotten, it won't be many more years before it's claimed by the ivy and disappears forever.

* * *

It's chillier here than in Kansas. The turn of seasons doesn't seem to have taken place yet, and the big grey clouds that begin to roll in threaten freezing rain or snow. The weak buds of green on the trees become scarcer the farther from the cabin they get.

A little dirt road connects with the brick route. She's glad to see the familiar yellow bricks, and there's a little skip in her step as she follows behind Mr. Cain and ahead of Glitch. The little dog stays with her by her feet, seemingly determined to see her as safely transported as Mr. Cain is. Or maybe more, since Mr. Cain is already grumbling that he's going to dump them on the other side of the fields and be well rid of them.

She keeps watch for the orchard her pop mentioned to her. Branches bursting with green leaves and brimming with fruit all year round. Soon however, she's met with a sight she can hardly accept. This is no orchard, there is no abundance of life here. Everything is dead; the trees are skeletal, and the soil is parched.

She stops short of the first stand. Glitch stops near her, a fingernail in his mouth even as his eyes refuse to leave the dead orchard. He's terrified, she can see it in his eyes. She takes his free hand as the dog worries and whimpers at their feet.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

Mr. Cain stops ahead of them. "I thought you said your pop told you about the fields."

"I – I think he might have meant somewhere different. This isn't like he described."

"There aren't any other fields," Mr. Cain says shortly. "If there were, finding food wouldn't be the problem that it is."

DG frowns. The more time she spends in the Outer Zone, the better Kansas seems in retrospect.

It seems odd for the air to hold the cold promise of spring, but to be surrounded by no evidence of it. The world around her is still; they four are the only things that move. She keeps her eyes open, she looks around her, keeps her ears keened to the sound of creaking branches, their feet on the bricks, and anything at all apart from that.

There's danger in these trees. Mr. Cain has a hand perpetually over the gun he holstered to his side before they'd all left his cabin. Glitch has curled up on himself a little, and hasn't said a word for over an hour. While he stays close to her, he offers no comfort to her as he tries to calm himself. When she catches his fearful, skipping eyes, she offers him the bravest, sweetest smile she can muster.

He returns it, however fleeting. Then a gust of frigid wind hits their backs, urging them on, and Glitch goes back to his silent, nervous vigilance.

* * *

The first sun is falling below the horizon when Mr. Cain announces they're almost through the fields. He sounds surprised by this fact, surprised that he's survived while hauling this sorry band behind him. The threat of the 'runners' she's been warned about is oft heard, but never seen. Even now, there's a sharp bark in the distance that sends the dog growling, followed by a strangled cry that sends him skittering between DG's feet. There he resumes his growling.

"That stray seems to have taken a liking to you," Mr. Cain comments offhandedly to her.

"I'm pretty likeable."

There's an aggravated sigh, and no other response.

"Does he have a name?" she presses, an attempt to take her mind off the last stretch of their journey through the dessicated orchard.

Mr. Cain glances sidelong at her. "Not by me."

DG wrinkles her nose, think it an injustice that the dog go without a name. Even the old barn cat had a name. Has a name.

The cries of the runners become more frequent, and Glitch finds his way to her. To give him confidence, she links their arms and they walk side by side. There is no conversation to be had, as she can't think of anything to say and he's a distracted conversationalist to begin with. He's jumpy, jittery, more so than normal – though what norm she can discern from having known the man less than a day is still to be determined.

Ahead of them, Mr. Cain halts suddenly; he lifts his hand to signal them to stop, though they're hard-pressed to do it in time to keep from running into his back altogether. He hushes them, though they aren't making any noise to begin with. She listens to the quiet, and soon is able to make out the scuffling, the thumping and the whimpering.

The little dog positions himself near DG's feet. His back is rigid, and the low growl emitting from him is ferocious for all its minimality. She looks down and puts her finger to her lips, and he plops his bottom on the ground.

"Trouble ahead," Mr. Cain says. "Might be able to go around. No sayin' what we'll run into if we go off the road, mind you."

She doesn't like this one bit. Her parents have specifically instructed her to stick to the road. Even with a guide who seems to know the countryside as well as Mr. Cain does, she feels more comfortable listening to her pop.

"Is it – you know – the, well, you know... do you know?" Glitch stammers.

Mr. Cain makes no response. Instead, a violent thump disturbs the twilight, followed by a pained cry and a harsh laugh. Someone is in trouble, a lot of trouble.

"We should avoid – you know. Just to be safe," Glitch adds with a firm nod, the most conviction she's heard out of him.

"Smartest thing you've said all day," Mr. Cain agrees, and he leads the way off the bricks, deeper into the orchard.

DG stays planted on the brick route. The two men are a good deal of paces away before they realize she's anchored and they turn to stare at her. There's a determined glint in her eye that has Cain frowning and irritated before she's even made a move. Once she realizes she has their attention, she offers Glitch a ghost of a grin before nodding her head in the direction she'd been headed before she stopped, down the brick route and toward the end of the fields.

She continues down the yellow-brick route, and the two men have no choice but to follow. An unsure glance is passed between them before they're hastening to keep up.

* * *

The balcony faces east. She sees the darkest part of the sky, as the suns set at her back, blocked by the tower that reaches up and up above her head. She's cast in shadow, and it's bitterly cold; she stands unaffected, stares into the east.

The stars are coming out over the pinnacles of the city. There is not much beyond that she can see, not the fields or the forests of the tree-dwellers past the borders of the Papay.

Her chief advisor clears his throat behind her. "What is it?" she demands.

"Sorceress, the general has returned with his report." He hesitates to continue.

She taps her fingernails impatiently on the stone railing. "_Well_?"

"There are whisperings among the Eastern Guild that an unnatural gale blew up sometime after nightfall yesterday."

Her lips purse together tightly at his wording. There's a beat of silence as he waits for her response, but she takes her time in giving it. She takes that extra moment to curtail her tone; it is not in her interests to allow _anyone_ to notice her agitation over this girl the Viewer announces as her end.

"A travel storm," she says. It is not a question.

"It appears to be, Sorceress."

She inhales deeply, calming herself. There is no change in the firm set to her shoulders, her perfectly erect posture, though there is that defiant, small part inside of her that wants to curl inward with wariness.

"I want the conjurer found," she orders. She has yet to turn to face the man, instead allowing him to shiver in his shoes a while longer in anticipation of her displeasure.

"All efforts not concentrated here at the tower are currently in search of the Emerald, Sorceress, as you ordered."

She frowns. "Have Lonot dispatch a few of his best men to the task. I don't care who, just have the wretch responsible for the travel storm at my feet and soon."

"Yes, Sorceress."

She dismisses him, and returns her attention to the sky; the stars are coming out brighter now, and the blue is deepening into inky black. Soon, the first moon will rise, to join its sister, stuck in her perpetual celestial perch. The suns are playing a dangerous game with this moon during the day, and the Sorceress intends to utilize this power to her greatest benefit.

Nothing will stand in her way. She will not come to her end at the hands of the child Lylo has foreseen.

This is to be her victory. Finally, something _hers_. Every slight against her will soon be remedied, and her wounds mended. Her long suffering will not go unrewarded.


	4. Four

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Miscreant, Obligation*, Street, Simmer, Fuss_

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**Follow That Same Old Road**

**Four**

Wyatt Cain might not have to wait for the Papay to tear the kid to pieces, because he's just about mad enough to do it himself.

The girl marches ahead of them with an odd determination. The headcase keeps glancing at him for reassurance, but he's got none to offer.

The sounds of fighting grow louder, spurring the girl on. Behind her, Cain takes his one and only consolation: the sounds are human. There's no pack of runners devouring a fresh catch, starving enough to turn on them and take them for dessert. He quickens his pace to keep up with her when she flat out runs. Either this kid has delusions of heroism or no common sense at all.

The source of all the noise comes into sight at the same time as the end of the field can be seen. Two men in uniform lord over a third, attempting to beat him into submission and finding him less than a willing participant. Instead of fighting back, however, the victim is doing his best to break loose and run. To no avail, as he hits the ground again with a pained grunt.

"Hey!" DG shouts, sprinting forward with a burst of energy Cain is unable to mimic. He remembers, quite acutely, telling her not to run or yell in the fields, for fear of drawing the attention of the runners to herself. It hadn't crossed his mind, not once, that they might run into danger that went past that of the inhabitants of the fields.

The men are deserters of the Sorceress' army, he can see it right away in the state of their uniforms. They're unshaven, and more than a bit dirty. The third man caught between them is in an equally sorry state. The two deserters drop their victim as they turn toward DG's shout, and see the group coming toward them. The third man seizes his opportunity, and tears away down the brick route, disappearing into the ever-thickening dark without a single backward glance.

"Aww, now look what you did," the first says.

"Pretty girl, to be out this far," says the second, taking greater notice of the girl with the red-flared cheeks glaring at him.

Glitch is at the girl's side with his chest puffed out faster than Cain can think to react. He's protective of the kid, though Cain can't figure why a headcase would think or remember to care about a lost little girl.

"Never mind the girl," Cain says. He draws his duster back to reveal the holstered revolver at his hip. An impressive weapon by no means, but these two are unarmed. "It's against Her Majesty's law to lay hands on a Viewer."

The first snorts. "Her Majesty's law," he says derisively. "Dead law."

"You think Azkadellia will be any more pleased to find you two makin' sport with a Viewer she ain't yet had the chance to suck dry?"

Beside him, DG makes a curious sound. The dog is pacing and fretting at his feet, easier ignored than the signals of the runners being cried in the distance. Lingering is dangerous.

"Mighta been we meant him as a present," the second says. "Hey, don't I know you from somewheres?"

Cain shakes his head. "Might be you want to keep on walkin'. We'll be on our way." He motions for DG and Glitch to continue down the brick route. DG bends and scoops up the dog, cradling him under her chin. Cain casts a long, hard glance at the two ex-soldiers who are now studying him with renewed interest. He turns his back on them and follows after the kid and the headcase.

* * *

There's a certain little haunting melody stuck in her head, and she doesn't know where she first heard it. She wonders if maybe being in this country is jarring parts of her memory that have remained dormant. Memories of her true mother, the woman from her dreams. The one who beckoned her here, and beckons still...

She catches herself humming as she settles down next to the fire. Mr. Cain is checking the chambers of his revolver, even though she knows for a fact he hasn't fired a shot since they left his cabin. Glitch is twirling a stick between his long fingers with some degree of aptitude. She rarely sees his hands idle, there is always something he's fiddling with.

Her pop used to call her a 'great fiddler' when it came to things. She closes her eyes, shuts out his apple-cheeked smile. She needs a distraction.

"Who is Azkadellia?" she pipes up suddenly; the question does not have an effect she could have predicted. Glitch jumps a little at the name, dropping the twig into the dirt. Mr. Cain flips the cylinder back into place with a hard flick of his wrist. His jaw is tensed so tightly, he might break a tooth.

"The Sorceress, Azkadellia," Glitch clarifies with a squeak. "There's a name that won't be leaving my noggin any time soon. Too bad." He sighs. "Too bad."

"The witch that the junior warriors were worried about?"

Cain holsters his gun, and frowns at her. "Munchkins. They make up the Eastern Guild. You want to make it look like you belong here, you'd best stop doing anything and everything you can to make yourself stand out."

DG considers him unhappily. "Why is everyone so afraid of this witch?"

"I'm not afraid of a witch," Glitch says with a grin. "I'm not afraid of anything!"

"I find that hard to believe," DG says, returning his grin as she thinks of him staying unfailingly close to her side during their journey through the fields. "But this Azkadellia..."

"Very bad idea to go around asking questions about Azkadellia," Cain says quietly; he kneels down by the fire and stacks on a few more of the thick branches he'd collected. The light grows gradually brighter, illuminating his pensive, weathered face.

"Well, what happened to the old queen?" DG asks.

Cain's eyes cut through the air to land on her. "Don't go diggin' around," he says; a warning if she's ever heard one. He's about to say more, his mouth is open and his tongue on the edge of this teeth, when a quiet crack echoes off the trees that surround them. This thick forest could be full of any strange sort of creature. DG swallows hard as Mr. Cain forgets all about what he's going to say; he stands straight, shoulders tense as his hand pushes back his coat.

The figure is half-bowed in supplication as he approaches. The dirty clothes the stranger wears are made of fur, and his hair is a tangled mane. As the man looks up, she sees that he's of a different race than she, his kind, gentle features remind her of a lion, proud and knowledgeable. His eyes are dark and sorrowful.

The dog stands before DG and barks twice, sharp little sounds that bounce around them and off into the night.

"Thought you'd be halfway to Central City by now," Mr. Cain says, letting his coat fall back into place, all the tension coming out of his shoulders. There is no threat from this man, not if a single base thing he knows of his homeland are held true.

"Must give thanks," the man says in a low, choked voice. He approaches DG cautiously; she's on her feet and giving a nervous smile when he takes her hands in his. He gasps, his dark eyes widening as he meets her blue ones. "You are running, child. Do not know what you run from, but must run faster."

DG's smile falters. "What?"

"End of one road is beginning of other. On and on and on, with no rest."

"What?" she asks, yanking her hands back. The little dog is circling her feet now, rubbing against her ankles like a cat. He's whimpering quietly, as if attuned to her confusion and worry.

"Have help, now have more help," he says, smiling at her widely enough to reveal fangs. How that manages to make him seem friendlier, she's not sure, but there it is.

* * *

She's always had an image in her head of what Milltown was. Her parents have spoken so often of it, her pop more than her mother, but still... the dirt roads are lined with wooden-slatted sidewalks, windows with glinting glass and flower-boxes bursting with life and colour. Neighbours and strangers alike wave, tip hats. Morning and afternoon greetings are called jovially; life is slow paced, comfortable and friendly.

This can't be Milltown. There isn't a soul in sight.

She picks up the little dog despite his muddy paws, running an absent hand between his ears. "Um, Glitch?"

Glitch puts a hand on her shoulder, an almost ever-present smile there to reassure her. "What's up, Doll?"

"Do you remember what the mean little Munchkin said about there being no more human towns in the east?"

"Nope."

"Oh." She turns to Mr. Cain, who is surveying the sight of the empty streets; his eyes are narrowed in suspicion, and he's taken a defensive stance. It's taken more than a little tongue biting to keep herself from asking why he's still with them. He promised to see them safely through the fields, and he had done just that. But come morning, he'd woken them and continued along the brick route with them. Now the party numbers four, plus the dog she holds.

"Has it been deserted?" she asks Mr. Cain.

He shakes his head. "No, and believe me, they've probably already taken notice of us."

"Well, good!" she says, and sets the pup down at her feet. It doesn't stray far, instead sniffing around in the dirt, overturning small rocks with his nose. "Someone can tell me where I can find my parents."

"Kiddo –"

She turns on him, confused. It seems an odd time for an endearment. But there's not a second to dwell on it, as the sound of approaching footsteps finds them at the end of the lane out of town. A young woman, dressed in a soiled day-gown and an ill-fitting man's dinner jacket. DG's hopes for finding her parents safe and sound begin to ebb away.

"State your business," the woman demands.

"This girl seeks two of your fine community," Mr. Cain says evenly.

"You are spies of the Sorceress. Leave now and return no more. Our patience with _her_ will not last forever," the woman says forcefully. DG glances from the woman to Mr. Cain, and the animosity on each face at the mention of this witch, this Azkadellia.

Mr. Cain gestures first to Glitch, with his zippered crown, and next to the mysterious Viewer, whose shoulders are slumped inward. "As you can see," Mr. Cain says, words tight, "we are no friends of Azkadellia."

The woman from the town considers them all for a moment, her eyes lingering over-long on Glitch and the seam that mars his pale forehead. "Father Vue will see no one," she says carefully.

"Who?" DG asks. Mr. Cain holds up two fingers to silence her, and she falls back unhappily.

"She ain't here to see that old coot," he says.

"Whom, then, does the child seek?" the woman asks Cain, not taking her eyes off of him.

Mr. Cain nudges DG's shoulder. "Tell her their names."

DG rolls her eyes. Honestly, she could have taken care of this entire conversation herself. "Hank Gale."

The woman takes another moment of thought. Glitch manages to catch DG's eye and offer another smile that he seems never to run out of, but the tension is too high for DG to even think of returning it. Then, when DG thinks she might not be able to take it any longer, the woman speaks in a low voice.

"Come with me."

* * *

She can't stop seeing that face.

That pale-cheeked, pretty-lipped, round little face.

It's the eyes. _Those_ eyes, the clearest blue you ever saw.

But it can't be.

She calls for Lylo, but the beast can't find the girl again. There are glimpses of a creek amidst a bed of reeds, the remains of the brick route cutting through dark and tangled forest. Nothing palpable, simple pictures of the countryside where the girl might have been.

The 'unnatural gale' touching down in the east is no coincidence. She can tell herself that all she wants, _tries_ to convince the tiny voice inside that all is well, and everything is going according to their most carefully laid plans.

"_Hush, hush,"_ she whispers to herself when she's alone, sitting before the fire, staring into the deep and cold marble chasm where the warmth and brightness flickers weakly.

"_Is it her? Can it really be her? Thought she was gone."_

Gone, gone, gone.

Her scouts return to her empty-handed, contrite and begging her with silent eyes for forgiveness. She stands on her balcony and waits for them to return each time she sends them out, staring into the east, far off to where the storm landed. She waits for the dark specks in the sky to signal that news is being brought back, and perhaps this time, or the next, the girl will be found and put to a proper death... and the stone, always the stone.

"Sorceress," her advisor calls.

She returns to her rooms, the greatest chamber of her suite. He stands near the door. "Is she found?"

"There is no word yet from Lonot's men," he says. "The general himself begs audience with you. The Resistance in the south is growing ever more bold and bothersome."

She sighs. "What now?"

"A regiment was ambushed early this morning. All weapons and equipment were taken, as well as the horses."

She grits her teeth. Such incompetence! To think that she couldn't have taken her rightful place on the throne of the country without the help of these clumsy, useless men.

"After the eclipse, we will crush them. We will do it slowly and we will make it hurt. Until the emerald is in my possession and the suns aligned, I can spare no thought to those rebels."

"Yes, Sorceress."

"Find me the girl, and find me the stone."

Her advisor leaves her, and she sinks down delicately onto the edge of a settee. She glances up at the ceiling, at the pillars, the flowing curtains and the dark and heavy furnishings. She's done much to build this protection around herself, this tower that stands not only as her gateway to the future of the country but as her fortress against those who would – and do – oppose her.

* * *

Her mother has never looked so happy to see her. As tired and as hungry as she is, DG can't help but return the sentiment. Her eyes light up as she's taken to a dusty parlour in a house that appears abandoned from the exterior. Her companions, her new friends, stay respectfully outside on the porch.

"Mom!" she sighs happily, leaning her head into the woman's shoulder. After everything in this first day, the new faces and the threats on the horizon and the country around her that seems to be in the deepest and darkest of turmoil, the sight of something so comfortable and familiar and _real_ to her is enough to bring the tears. Well, almost enough, she does have some dignity. "Where's dad?"

"He's gone ahead to explain to Father Vue," her mother says breathlessly. "Gods, we thought we'd lost you." She's touching DG's hair, running her hands down her arms and up again, cupping her face lovingly with the brightest smile DG's ever seen on her. Emily Gale was serious, stern, and too realistic. She wasn't a grinner, but the occasion seemed to dictate it all the same.

"You told me how to get here," DG says, "and I found help. I was fine, really, Mom."

Emily holds DG at arm's length, hands gripping her shoulders protectively. "No, no. There was no telling where you'd landed. And we had no idea – no idea! – the changes we were going to find here. The famine, the fields, that awful, hideous tower! Oh Gods, to think that tyrant sits where – well, never mind that. You could have been killed crossing the fields. Papay, wild! Hunting travellers, I never would have thought – "

DG separates herself from her mother. "Its okay, Mom. I told you, I found help. Kinda lucky, actually." She looks down at the little dog, wandering aimless circles around her; it almost seems as if he's pacing with impatience. When he catches her looking at him, he gives a little whine.

"A stray dog and a headcase are lucky?"

"Maybe," DG says, and shrugs.

Her mother is embracing her. She still isn't sure how she's meant to distinguish between this woman that holds her, touches her so lovingly, and the bare image of a woman they say is her true mother. For now, she puts it out of her mind and burrows into Emily's arms.

It's another ten minutes before her pop returns. DG is on the sofa, finally becoming uncomfortable over her mother's affections, when Hank Gale enters. Unlike his wife, he doesn't smile at the sight of his daughter. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitches, and he beckons for her to follow him.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"Father Vue wants to see you," he says hesitantly.

DG rises. "What's wrong?"

"Just come on, Deeg."

"No, what's going on?" she demands. Always questions first.

Her pop heaves a long, reluctant sigh. "I'll explain on the way. Just come with me, DG, and please – no more questions."


	5. Five

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Perplex, Symbol, Gang, Connection, City  
_

* * *

**Follow That Same Old Road**

**Five**

"We had no idea what we were bringing you into, baby girl. I am so sorry."

DG wonders if she wants to know the reason why her pop is apologizing to her. She's been told not to ask questions, and she refrains from it, simply because she might get more information to her if he's talking than if he's wasting all his time telling her to be quiet.

They're out of the house and down the porch steps. She has to run to keep up with her pop; her new friends on the porch jump to their feet, and she waves at them as she follows her pop deeper into the town, the little dog nipping at her heels and barking excitedly. She can barely pay him any mind.

"Fifteen annuals. So much has gone on here," her pop says, looking around at the derelict houses, the empty street. "The Sorceress has overtaken the whole country, the Queen has disappeared. The guilds have banded together to fight the princess... they're calling this the Emerald War. War, in the O.Z.," he says ruefully with a shake of his head. "We'd been at peace for over a hundred annuals. What has this world come to?"

He falls into silent contemplation; his feet do not slow.

"Who is Father Vue?" she finally asks.

"The reverend and, uh, mayor I suppose," her pop says. "When you were brought here as a child, it was him that helped your mother arrange – well, he'll tell you. I suspect he's been waiting a long time for you. We almost brought you too late."

"Why now? Why not last week, or month, or a year ago?"

"Don't know myself, baby girl," he says. He stops them in front of a house that pre-dates all the others on the street. The windows are boarded over from the inside, and no glass remains in the panes. The wood is tainted silver from rain, long fingers of rust reaching down from the roof. "It was always up to you to decide when to come back, anyways."

Her brow furrows. "Me?"

"Your dreams," he says, "were always meant to tell us it was time." He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes comfortingly – or, at least, that's what she's sure the gesture is meant to convey. His hand feels too heavy.

The tiny inkling of suspicion she's begun to feel since yesterday afternoon has turned into a flashing, neon sign.

DO NOT ENTER.

Of course, she doesn't listen to her instincts. She _should_, and would, if she knew what direction safety lay in. North, south, east, west... there is no going home, unless she finds the nearest general store selling tornadoes-in-a-jar. Something tells her, as she looks at the foreboding old building, that the locals might be less than friendly to a stranger such as her.

She was brought here as a child, five years old. She doesn't remember it. Did she stand with her true mother before this very house? Was it different then? Were there shingles on the roof, paint on the walls, glass in the windows?

She frowns. Did pigs have wings? Did they need ice skates in hell?

"I'm sorry," her pop says again, and his broken-hearted face terrifies her. She doesn't have time to dwell on it, however, as the door is opened for her from within and a voice from within calls to her.

"Come, child."

The dog's ears perk up, and he glances curiously at her. What choice does she have?

* * *

Dark. Dreary. Dusty. Damnable.

She doesn't have high hopes for this.

The sitting room is empty – completely. No furniture, refuse, curtains or rugs or anything. Through a door-less opening in the wall, light spills out. Her pop motions for her to go forward. When the little dog tries to follow her, her pop bends and picks him up. The poor pup's legs kick and try to find footing in the air; he whimpers as she leaves him behind.

In the darkened room, it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, but she finds Father Vue quickly enough anyway. You'd think that the man with the zipper acting as a part in his hair would have prepared her for more odd sights. Alas.

Her eyes close, and open. She blinks rapidly, wondering – not for the first time – if she's actually dreaming. She's never seen anything so bizarre as the man perched on an old kitchen chair, attaching a mechanical arm to his torso. Open wiring and flashing lights make it seem like a sci-fi movie prop, but as the arm is sealed into place with a series of whirs and a burst of air marking proper pressurisation, the fingers move as if he's flexing them after a long period of rest. The hydraulics give a low, constant hum.

"That's better," he says, and stands. His human torso sprouts four mechanical limbs, and there is a large band circling his neck as if holding his head on straight. "I'm sorry you have to see me in such a state, but you don't remember me at all, do you?"

She shakes her head.

The old man smiles. "As it should be. You seek your mother, yes?"

She nods. Words don't seem possible as the man's mechanical body takes a few stiff steps. She shouldn't stare, she's being rude, but she can't exactly help it. It's all she can do to keep her jaw off the floor. Is this what the little red-painted Munchkin meant about there being no human towns left in the east? The inhabitants here weren't human? Which meant, logically...

"I cannot tell you what has happened to your mother," he tells her firstly. That, he needs made clear right away. "I have not seen or heard from the woman since you were placed in the care of our fair town."

She clears her throat and attempts to speak. "But – I mean, what – why, _why_ was I brought here? Why did she –" She cuts herself off when she sees his sad face. He doesn't have these answers, but he must have _something_ to tell her.

"It was fifteen annuals ago when your mother brought you here," he said. "She was a beautiful woman, and though she tried to conceal her identity, her accent betrayed her as part of the northern aristocracy. In fear for your life and her own, you were left in the care of two units meant for that purpose."

DG squeezes her eyes shut; a lump rises in her throat and leaves an acrid taste. She wonders how good she can become at selective believing – but one glance at the man's body, constructed from both flesh and alloy, tells her the answer is _not very._

"You were here for barely days before two men came, sent by your mother," he explains. "A manservant and a gentleman of very great importance. It was they who took you over to the Other Side with your units."

She wants to tell him to stop calling them that, but the words are stuck behind that suffocating lump.

Instead, she asks, "But where is my mother?"

"I do not know how you are meant to find her, child," he replies. "In these tumultuous times, yours was not the first family to be torn asunder, nor was it – or will be – the last. I have only one protection to offer you before you leave us, and go on your way down the old road."

"Protection? Why do I need protection?"

Father Vue's sad, tired eyes close. "Your questions are taxing, child, might you cease?" Obligingly, she shuts up. He offers her a wan smile when he opens his eyes again. "If you've not noticed, this country is plagued by war. Passage through the realms will not be easy, that is certain. Your mother meant for this crest to guide you."

He reaches out and takes her hand; she resists the cringe that wants to ripple through her entire body. His fingers are cold and hard, but incredibly smooth. He lays her hand out over his own, palm up. With his free hand, he touches her palm lightly and begins to outline over her skin.

The glow is almost blinding, but she can't look away.

* * *

Her journey has only begun, it seems.

Her parents flat-out refuse to go with her. They send her on her way with many hugs and tears and blessings from Gods and saints she's never heard of. Their place is in Milltown, and their presence is a danger to her, though she's not sure why that is. She doesn't ask, only holds them all the tighter while she can.

Glitch is determined to go with her. West, she's headed, to a place called Central City. Glitch absolutely beams when she tells him that's where Father Vue has directed her to go. "Ooh, fantastic!" he exclaims happily. "I've many fond memories of Central City... I think. Well, there is this one that involves a horrible misunderstanding with a Vapours vendor. Why, that's not a good memory at all!" Suddenly, he's frowning and looks near tears. But the next moment his face is wiped blank, he's grinning in that innocent way and asking her where they're going.

The Viewer tells her in very few words that he will also accompany her to the city, referring to himself as _Raw_. She smiles at him when he tells her his name. He's quiet and calming, and his languid manner is a direct offset to Glitch's skips and free movements.

She's bent down to tie her shoelace when Mr. Cain comes up behind her and clears his throat. "We can make Central City before nightfall," he tells her. When she stands and looks at him, his eyes are on the sky. "We might have to leave the road if we run into any trouble. Don't want anyone catching you with that mark on your hand."

DG looks at her palm. The lines tattooed there, two roads diverging from a single point, creating a swirl pattern caught inside a circle. "What's wrong with my hand?" she wonders.

"That's the crest of the royal family," Mr. Cain says in a low voice, and his eyes settle on her. His face is stone serious, distinguishable from his regular seriousness. "You don't show that to _anyone_ unless you're sure you can trust 'em, you hear me?"

She swallows hard. "All right."

"Now, why Central City?"

"We're looking for someone," she says. Not her mother, but another man. As Father Vue relayed, the man who was responsible for her crossing over to the Other Side. A man of high rank like her mother, with great and terrible power. Someone who has apparently been missing for nine years.

"Haven't we been looking for someone this whole time?" Glitch pipes up curiously.

"A new someone," DG clarifies. "A man who might know what happened to my mother. The _Mystic_ Man?"

Glitch's eyes widen immensely, while Mr. Cain's drop to the ground. "Wait," Glitch says. "Isn't he dead?"

Mr. Cain snorts. "That's what he'd like the world to believe. No, he ain't dead."

"How would you know?" Glitch challenges.

"I just do," Mr. Cain says. "And if you want to make it through the city gates before night, you'd best stop moving your mouth and start moving your legs. You done saying all your goodbyes here, kid?"

DG's eyes are focused on the houses in the distance. At present, they stand beside an old stone marker, impressed with a circle and six spokes, and the words 'Central City'. When she looks down at her feet, she sees her dog – yes, she's already decided, _her_ dog – looking up at her with expectant brown eyes, his tail wagging as he sits on an unevenly laid yellow brick.

She can return here when she's found her true mother. Hank and Emily are adamant that she press on.

Her curiosity is too much to contain, and so she takes the first steps, and her new friends fall in behind her.

* * *

The suns pass by each other overhead, coming so desperately close to the constant moon.

The stray dog he's never been able to rid himself of leads a stray girl into his backyard.

Now he's crossing the eastern province and she's looking for the _Mystic Man_.

Gods, they'll all be dead before the eclipse.

Between the prattling of the headcase and the girl, Cain's got a headache. DG tells the story and Glitch gleefully listens, asking questions when appropriate and asking her to explain every single contraption and doo-hickey from her world she mentions in passing.

The Viewer follows them all quietly. He isn't quite sure what yet to make of Raw, as he calls himself. He doesn't understand why the Viewer isn't hiding underground with the rest of his people. His following the girl through the gratitude of being freed of Azkadellia's soldiers only makes this entire ordeal all the more suspicious.

"Who is the Mystic Man?" the girl questions him, breaking into his mulling.

"He was once a great man. One of the country's Elite before the takeover," he says shortly. "If you can manage to find him, you'll see for yourself."

"What happened to him?"

Why all the questions? "Defeated when the Sorceress seized Central City," Cain says, and his jaw clenches on its own, painfully. "He was the Queen's last defence after her army had all turned to the Sorceress or were killed." He paused, not sure how much to tell the kid. He didn't want to start throwing his own conclusions at her. The truth might send her running in the other direction... if it's even the truth.

It's too early to assume anything.

"Why did he run?" she asks, so naively asks.

Cain realizes she's prompting him to continue. "After a failed last stand, all those loyal to the Queen smuggled their families out. He's not the only one who went into hiding."

"And she hasn't found him?"

"No, he was one of the lucky ones," he says bitterly, and then lengthens his stride to leave her behind. He ends the conversation, and doesn't say another word to her for the rest of the walk to Central.

* * *

"No."

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes. But still, the answer is no."

The hill overlooking Central City has a breathtaking view, especially in the early twilight. The city absolutely _glows. _The reflection on the lake glitters as the waters move. She's reminded of the dozens of scenes she scribbled with her pencils that come close to this – almost perfect renditions, but to see this sight with her own eyes...

The gates are heavily guarded. The traffic slowly, _slowly_ moves through the barricade set up by black-clad groups of the Sorceress' soldiers. Very few vehicles are waved through, and patrons on foot are searched.

Mr. Cain had been contemplating how to sneak them all through the gates. It wasn't possible. A headcase would be questioned, a Viewer would be arrested. And Mr. Cain seems reluctant to show his own face in there, but it takes her a little while to figure that out.

And then Glitch had come up with his brilliant idea, and that's when she and he had begun arguing.

"All we have to do is wait until dark, descend the cliff –"

"_Descend_!"

"Well, it's not like we're jumping off a cliff, are we?"

"_No,_" Mr. Cain interjects finally, putting an end to Glitch's subterranean sewer-pipe spelunking expedition. Cain is convinced that the only way into the city is through the gates, past the guard towers. DG isn't so sure, but she's not about to begin arguing with him. She isn't that thrilled over Glitch's bright idea.

Although, in all honesty, it's quite clever. There are several open drains, and many seem to be out of use.

"We could try our luck just walking up to the gate," she muses. She watches as a group of people are allowed entry into the city through the diminished gate. She can barely make out the number of people, but she sees them pass through all the same.

"Which gate? There are four," Mr. Cain asks impatiently.

"North gate," Raw says gruffly. DG turns to him, surprised. It's the first time she's heard him speak since leaving Milltown. She rather enjoys the sound of his voice; he's reserved, but he's growing friendlier. At least, she hopes.

"Why north?" Glitch asks, as if he has the answer on the tip of his tongue, just needs the right suggestion to have it come flowing back to him.

"Girl is north," Raw says, and he faces the direction he's speaking of, across the lake and the causeway that spans it. "North wind will bring luck."

DG eyes the long causeway, lit up with a hundred lights, turning the surface of the lake into a shifting sky and a thousand stars. She hopes the north gate is less heavily guarded, because she's not liking how much she's coming to rely on luck.


	6. Six

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Loquacious, Location, Moxie, Spy, Furniture_

_

* * *

_**Follow That Same Old Road**

**Six**

So she's not so good with bridges. The distance down to the water is dizzying. She's not sure if it's the height or the water itself, but she needs to continue being fearless, she can't blink an eye at this, so she doesn't – though she knows anyone paying attention would see the tension and stiffness in her gait.

The north gate beckons them closer with beams of light shooting into the sky, dimming the very stars with their brightness.

There are fewer guards here, and she breathes a sigh of relief. The gate is busy, and the people walking both sides of the causeway show her that she's very poorly dressed. As it is, she hasn't seen a single woman sporting a pair of pants, and she knows she sticks out like a sore thumb.

She hears the booming voice before she makes out where it's coming from.

"_Give yourselves over to instant gratification! Feel the way you've always dreamed!"_

They pass a couple who turn their faces away at the sight of Glitch. DG frowns, hating that his kind soul is judged solely by the mark upon him. She wonders what crime could have been so horrible and deserving of such a brand.

"_Find your way to the Cyclone Palace, the jewel of the Sin District!"_

The man stands on a short podium near the right-hand side of the open gate, bellowing and handing out fliers. He's finely dressed, his shoes gleaming enough to cast a reflection. He's mostly ignored by the passers-by, though the occasional gentleman heading in through the gates takes the flier he offers. The Longcoats on duty seem to be doing little with the light foot traffic going in; the single lane of the causeway is for outbound vehicles only.

"_Fortunes read! Fantasies realized!" _He stops and chuckles to himself, an act so practised even DG can see it as fake.

Under the imposing glare of the lights high on the wall, the group moves casually toward the gate. DG finally scoops up the little dog, tucking him comfortably against her body; she doesn't want him to get lost or trampled. His little head is snapping back and forth at the faces walking past, trying to get a good look at each and every one.

"Seems like we're getting lucky after all," Mr. Cain says, and motions for the others to hang back. Walking up to the gentleman on the podium, he takes a flier. "This your day job?" he asks.

"This is me freezing my ass off," the gentleman says, hopping down to face Cain, even though the loss of the podium's advantage has him looking _up._ "I was beginning to think you wasn't gonna show, Tin Man. Whose are these?" he asks, nodding to DG, Glitch, and Raw as if they might be possessions for the buying or selling.

"Why don't you just take us in, and let others ask the questions," Mr. Cain says, the thinnest edge in his voice.

The gentleman considers this briefly before he walks over to DG, and introduces himself. "Antoine DeMilo," he says with a slippery grin. "Now, please don't mind, but –" He doesn't finish as he grips her arm firmly and tugs her a little closer to the gate. He does the same to Raw, taking care to grip him by the sleeve of his shirt and not by bare skin. He hails one of the Longcoats laxly watching the gate. "I'm takin' these two in with me. Gotta get 'em processed, if ya catch me."

The Longcoat takes his time scrutinizing DG. "A little boyish, ain't she?" he says, finally. He nudges his partner, who takes a gander while DG glares and shifts uncomfortably.

"You wanna take another look, it's gonna cost ya," DeMilo says, and pulls DG along through the gates. The others follow until they're out of sight of the gate and the guards and under the protection of the city's cover.

DG's eyes go skyward, and her head falls back; the lights and images of the city are overwhelming, and she craves to drink in them all. But DeMilo's voice cuts into her thoughts, reminding her of the task at hand.

"I ain't never seen a sadder lookin' group than you," he says, his eyes skipping from zipper to fur to revolver. "And what's with the dog?"

* * *

The streets are an endless maze of tunnels and alleyways, stairwells and courtyards and more gates and tolls. No one in the city pays them any mind, they are but mere citizens. The people that pass them are in varying states of dress from eras long past by DG's way of thinking.

DeMilo has not stopped berating Cain over the state of the city. There's an empty expression on Cain's face as he listens, one that grows darker and grimmer the deeper into the city they head. DeMilo is complaining that a dishonest gentleman could make a real nice living in circumstances such as these, but he's been roped into this honest man's resistance because of his pleasing countenance and giving nature.

Behind him, DG rolls her eyes and Glitch snickers.

"You've gotten into the habit of usin' real Viewers in your rooms?"

"Pfft," DeMilo laughs, "the wicked bitch of the west would throw a hissy fit if she knew there was a Viewer she hadn't got her hands on. Your friend is without a doubt the only true empath in the city, though there's surprisingly few people that can tell the difference."

"How is it you haven't landed on the wrong side of the Longcoats yet?" Cain asks.

"Hey, I'm useful, for the right price. Them leavin' my business endeavours alone in exchange for me helping them with what they need within city walls is always an arrangement that works out nicely. 'Specially since this here's my playground," DeMilo says cockily.

"How about the old man, he's been managing to lay low?"

DeMilo snorts. "You think he's been layin' low? S'all can be done to keep him hiding. Nine annuals is a _long_ time."

"You don't have to tell me," Cain says, and glances back at DG. "Well, maybe we can convince the old sonuvabitch to come topside and stretch his legs."

"Settle down, Tin Man," DeMilo says, "he ain't gonna be so easily impressed just because you toss a kid in front of him. You think you're the first to bring him a girl?"

An hour has passed since they entered the city, and the streets are becoming crowded, rowdier. DG's eyes widen at the vast array of patrons this district holds, material goods and willing flesh being sold side by side. She's not modest by any means, but she can't help the embarrassed blush that rises up when she hears some of the shouts of the vendors auctioning off young boys and girls for an evening of leisure or pleasure.

A set of rickety stairs descends below street level, so well hidden by fences and street traffic, she never would have noticed it. She's led down sandwiched between Glitch and Cain. Both are looking anxiously at her, and trying their very best not to show it. The door is opened and she's ushered through into a stuffy little room. A thick red curtain blocks off the rest of the suite, and the five squeeze in together as the door is closed. There's no place to put her own feet, let alone find a place to put the dog down, but he's whining and thrashing to get out of her arms.

"You wanna shut that thing up?" DeMilo snaps at her.

"If you'd kindly do us the same courtesy," DG replies sweetly.

"Antoine, you odious little guild reject!" booms a new voice. "You've been warned of bringing your girls into my presence."

DeMilo's face turns beet red. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," he says with a nervous laugh, pulling at his collar. "So, little girl, you ready to meet the wizard?"

* * *

She goes into the receiving room alone. She can hear the others shuffling uncomfortably in the small entryway behind the curtain. She takes the dog with her, simply because when she tried to hand him over to Glitch, the little beast nipped at his fingers. When the curtain swishes closed behind her, she puts her dog on the floor.

"Who do you think you are and why do you think you're here?" asks the booming voice she'd heard moments before.

Her mouth opens, and then closes; she clears her throat, and tries again. "I don't think that's any of your business," she says hesitantly, peering around the room to discern where the voice comes from. "You could at least have the guts to face me before making demands."

"None of my business" he repeats with a hearty laugh. "Let me guess. They've brought me another blue-eyed brunette, a Resistance child from, oh, by your manners I'd say Rigmarole."

He comes out of a back room then, the old man she's been wondering about. His head is bald and his clothes are worn. He's carrying an armload of books; he hands her a few volumes, and then takes them back almost immediately. "They haven't told you why they brought you here," he says, "nor will they. Worry not, child, this test is quite simple." He clears his throat, straightens his back, a doctor about to start an exam. "Show me your hand."

She baulks; the old man sighs.

"Your palm," he says again. She holds it out for him, and he squints and blinks disbelievingly as he takes her hand between his own. The crest on her hands begins to glow burning red, though she feels no shift but for a pleasant warmth.

"How did you do that?" she asks, snatching her hand back. The glow diminishes immediately.

"I didn't, my dear, you did," he says. "Who brought you here, child?"

The dog barks twice then, and hops up onto a chair. He sits primly, completely still. There's more shuffling on the other side of the curtain before it's drawn open. Mr. Cain has removed his hat and is holding it in his hands, Glitch is standing quite erect, whereas Raw is attempting to hide behind the two. DeMilo has disappeared.

"Ah," the Mystic Man says, "I might've known." His eyes skip to the others, lingering long on Glitch. "You seem to have acquired quite the fellowship for yourself, young lady."

DG huffs indignantly. "Listen, I'm only here because I was told you know where I can find my mother," she says.

The Mystic Man smiles, which brightens his whole face. "She's looking for her mother," he says with a light laugh as he glances at Cain. "Sit down, and we'll see what we can do about that."

_

* * *

_

"The girl lives!"

"Yes."

The Sorceress is the very picture of fury. Her beautiful face is distorted by the sneer that settled itself on her lips sometime before. No matter all the options she has gone through in her mind, the Viewer's vision cannot be ignored.

"_The one to light the way approaches!" _His very words echo in her brain, taunting and tormenting.

"Will she find the stone in time?" she demands.

Her prisoner is weary and pale, but her voice is strong with conviction. "I do not know. With any hope, yes, she will."

"Hope," the Sorceress spits. "You've been singing that same song for far too long."

"It passes the days," her prisoner says, her face never breaking its emotionless resolve.

"What have you planned for her? Where have you sent her?" Anger is beginning to seep into the Sorceress' voice, making her sound less in control – and she strives for constant control over every part of herself. Someone listening – though no one but the prisoner is, they are so horribly alone – might have thought there was a childish lilt of fear in the Sorceress' words.

"There are no intentions for her," the prisoner says evenly. "She has but to follow her own road."

The Sorceress leaves the woman in her dejected, barren state, presiding over her kingdom of emptiness. She's surprised to see her advisor and her general waiting for her in her receiving room. They look anxious, and it does nothing to help her mood.

"What _can_ it be?" she wonders aloud, glaring hard enough at both of them that they flinch like schoolchildren. She runs a finger along the top of the hourglass, the red sands shifting and swirling before settling back into place, balanced evenly top and bottom; resealed, frozen.

"One of our spies has seen the girl," her advisor says quickly.

He has her interest, holds it fast. "One of your men, General?"

Lonot shakes his bald head. "No, Sorceress," he says. "It is one of our men inside the city."

"Central City? However did she manage to get that far with your men looking for her, and the city gates guarded?"

"With all due respect, Sorceress," Lonot says defensively, "my men have no clue of whom they are looking for. To stop every girl within the ages of fifteen and twenty-five annuals, to detain and interrogate –"

Her jaw tightens. "Twenty annuals, no more and no less. Dark brown hair that tumbles into loose curls, and the bluest eyes you've ever seen. It cannot be that difficult to find one little girl! My soldiers cannot manage but a seedy, mercenary spy can do the job?"

"There is more," says her advisor, his smooth and calming voice never failing. "It's said she's in the presence of the Mystic Man."

Her entire body is overtaken by a violent urge to kill both men with her bare hands as they stand cowering before her. As it is, it's all she can do to stop herself from sweeping the hourglass off the table to shatter on the floor.

_

* * *

_

The Mystic Man's apartments remind her of a flea market.

Pieces from a dozen different eras, cultures, and styles are shoved into every available space. Shelves are lined with books, and stray volumes are stacked on every available surface, among hundreds of trinkets and collectables. The lamps are draped with scarves and the air is thick with dust particles.

She's alone with the man who calls himself wizard. She doesn't know where the others are, but she knows she was left alone quite reluctantly.

"Why do you hide?" she asks him as he sets a steaming teacup before her.

"To stay alive," he says simply.

"Is my mother hiding?"

The Mystic Man hesitates for so long she's sure that he's not going to answer. "The fate of your mother," he says finally, sounding so very tired, "is one of the greatest mysteries of the war."

"What does my mother have to do with the war?"

The Mystic Man sighs. "There are a great many things that have gone wrong since your mother left you in the care of the units of Milltown," he explains. "Your safety was her foremost concern, and once that was ascertained, I do believe there was very little left that mattered to her. With your father gone, and your sister –"

"I have a sister?" she interrupts.

He nods. "Your family is another discussion for another day and place," he tells her, "for you have been deceived, my dear."

She frowns, and swallows once. "Deceived?"

"You are not here to seek your mother," he explains, taking great care with his words. "Haven't you noticed, child, the plight of the country?"

"You have a witch problem," she said slowly.

He stares at her blankly for a moment before a smile breaks onto his face, followed by a few small chuckles that soon turn into hearty guffaws, and he is completely overtaken.

"Good Heavens, child, I don't think I've heard our troubles put so eloquently before," he says, wiping at the corner of his eye. "You are every bit your mother's daughter," he says, and there is pride in his voice. "The symbol on your hand is meant to guide you to a very great treasure, one that will save the country from darkness."

From his perch on the third chair set around the table, the little dog whimpers, lifting his head from his paws to train his beady eyes on her.

"There isn't much I can explain to you," he says, "I am only to help and protect you. Tomorrow morning, we go north."

"North? What's in the north?" she asks, though the ringing bells of coincidence are chiming in her head.

"Your home," he says. "Did your nurture units never tell you stories of our great northern province?"

_Once upon a time, a daughter of light came upon a glistening white mountain, frozen in time in a sea of ice..._

She's still staring blankly into her cooled tea when the others return. There is much bumping and stumbling in the small sitting room, as tables are nudged and lamps wobbled and cushions moved to make room for exhausted bodies.

"Gentlemen," the Mystic Man says importantly, "you have my gratitude for seeing the girl safely to me. Had I any monetary possessions, you would be welcome to them, but all I have to offer is my humble thanks."

"I don't suppose you might know where my brain is, would you?" Glitch pipes up.

The Mystic Man shifts uncomfortably. DG doesn't like at all the way he regards Glitch. It isn't the contempt shown by the people on the bridge, nor the detachment of Mr. Cain. There's a shining sadness in the old man's eyes when he lets them fall upon Glitch, which is only as often as absolutely necessary.

"With the greatest respect, you are dismissed of your charge," the Mystic Man says. "Tomorrow, Mr. Cain and I will travel north with the girl and you are released of your obligation."

Glitch stammers for a few minutes as DG cries out "No!" Even Raw is on his feet, shaking his head vehemently, though he makes no vocal dissent.

"No," DG says again, scooping up the dog from her chair and holding him close, as if she's afraid that he, too, will be ripped away from her. "I'm not going anywhere without my friends. _All _my friends!" She looks pleadingly to Cain, who avoids meeting her eyes altogether.

Glitch nods firmly at DG's declaration. "I'm not leaving her," he says. "She needs me! Though... I can't figure out as to why!" There's a smile on his face as he says this, and it warms her. She feels stronger and safer in the presence of these strangers who are quickly becoming the only family she knows in this peculiar place.

The Mystic Man glances uneasily at Glitch. "Sir," he addresses respectfully, "you have no idea the danger you're walking into."

Glitch's grin falters anxiously. "Probably not," he says. "If I did, I don't think it would matter. I'd still help her. It's... important, somehow... I think."


	7. Seven

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Frame, Dent, Pursuit*, Leave, Winter_

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* * *

  
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**Follow That Same Old Road**

**Seven**

The hallway is long, and lined with her drawings. Whether portrait or landscape or half-finished pencil sketch, each is contained within an elaborate, gilded frame; a dream display of her work. As she passes each on her journey down the hall, watercolour waves ripple, and charcoal clouds roll. She feels as if she's walking through a living world, when she knows that these are just her dreams realized on paper. Lines and strokes, nothing more.

She stops in front of an especially large painting, the black funnel cloud reaching from the top of the canvas to the bottom, dominating the image with its threat.

"_A storm is coming."_

The words echo through the empty hallway, and a gust of cold wind blows through and rattles the paintings. A few fall to the floor, the breaking of glass and the cracking of wood adding to the rush of wind. She puts her hands over her ears as another blast hits her back, knocking her forward a step and billowing her long dark hair around her, tunnelling her vision and forcing her to look straight ahead.

At the end of the hallway is a door, the glass spider-webbed into dozens of panes, lit up with pale blue light. The wind is coaxing her toward it, chilly fingers pulling at her arms and hair. She resists, because she's never one to go easily. She knows, somehow, that truth lies on the other side of the door, and that once opened, can never be closed.

She fears going through it, worries about instant retribution and loss of innocence. What lies through that door frightens her, but the inevitability of reaching it does little to soothe her.

The wind stops. The paintings stop clattering on the walls, her hair settles itself on her shoulders. Hesitantly and oh so carefully, she takes a step closer to the end of the hall and the bluest, clearest light she's ever seen. Glass and splinters crunch underneath her feet.

A shadow moves behind the door, and she awakens with a start.

* * *

"Kiddo, wake up."

Her eyes pop open, and she pushes herself to sitting, nearly slamming her head into the low ceiling. The tiny bed shoved into the corner of the back room had boasted little comfort when she'd laid down upon it, but here she is, waking up from a deep sleep – or rather, being woken by a perturbed looking Wyatt Cain.

"You were making enough noise to rouse the whole house," he says, jerking a thumb not out the door to the rest of the apartment, but upward, to the rest of the building and the city in general, she assumes.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly, swiping the heel of her hand across her eyes, one and then the other. Her pop had always shown concern for her tossing and turning, but Mr. Cain seems only mildly annoyed. "Did I wake you?" she asks.

He frowns, and moves from his kneeling position beside the bed to a small chair in the opposite corner. There isn't enough space between the bed and the ceiling for him to sit up comfortably, though she moves her feet to make room for him to sit at the foot. It's then that she notices her dog's conspicuous absence; he'd fallen asleep with her but now the foot of the bed is cold.

"Can't wake what wasn't sleeping," Mr. Cain tells her. "You all right?"

"Define 'all right'," she mutters. She swings her stockinged feet over the edge of the bed and sits up hunched over, elbows atop her knees. Her hair must be a mess, her clothes rumpled, but there is so much weighing on her mind that she doesn't care.

Mr. Cain has nothing to offer. He doesn't go into the other room, where Raw's snores are but quiet snuffles. She wonders if he's just lonely for company.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?"

He smirks. "Just the one?"

"Why did DeMilo call you 'tin man'?"

"Because I was one, once," he says shortly.

DG's lips twisted skeptically. She'd come to know the man as close-guarded and distant, but _tin_? Mr. Cain takes a single look at the confused expression on her face, and shakes his head.

"Tin Men were the law in Central before the witch came and upended the country," he says. He looks at her long and hard, perhaps judging her capability to understand what he's saying. "Most were killed during the last stand of the city," he explains.

She remembers what she was told before, on the road to Central City. _After a failed last stand, all those loyal to the Queen smuggled their families out... _She bites the inside of her lip to see the sadness in his eyes, the ring on his finger, the empty cabin so easily left behind, and the iron suit hiding under the eaves and the ivy. She's made a bit of progress, put a dent in that steely hide of his, and it's a start. Of course, she decides to push her luck.

"Mr. Cain," she says slowly, her sentence open to more questions. However, he doesn't seem to be willing to answer any more, because he pushes himself to standing, and is about to tell her _something_ – whether it be to mind her own business or go back to sleep or jump off a cliff – when there is a great deal of commotion coming out of the sitting room, and the hushed lull of their conversation is broken.

* * *

By the time he arrives in Central City, the streets are empty and quiet. He travels into the depths and eventually reaches a place that never sleeps, where lights burn bright and calls are heard through all hours of the night. It's the perfect place to hide, even for one as well-bred and educated as the old man is rumoured to be.

Living among such dishonest folks, it's a wonder the old man hasn't been turned in before now.

"What are your orders, Captain?" one of his underlings asks him, leaning in close so as to be heard.

"We follow DeMilo's instructions," the captain says, "and then we take them quietly. The girl and the old man come with us. The rest..." he trails off and doesn't finish. He remembers DeMilo's nervous, pathetic story as they met him outside the city walls. Something about a Viewer, a headcase, and _Wyatt Cain._

His interest in this assignment had been minimal in the beginning – search the whole of the eastern province for someone who _might_ have landed a travel storm and who _might_ be travelling... _anywhere_ in the Zone? It sounded like an excuse to feed the paranoia of the Sorceress.

...And then the news had reached him. The someone is a girl, bearing the crest of the royal family, guarded and guided by a man who is supposed to be incarcerated forever in a tin box, on her way to meet with an old man that has eluded the grasp of the Sorceress for nine annuals.

If the job hadn't already been his, he'd have been worming his way onto the detail by whatever means necessary. Catching the girl and the wizard will put him eternally in the good graces of the Sorceress, and his legacy will be secure.

The stairs that DeMilo had described were concealed by a length of wrought-iron fence, and a pair of vendor stands wedged tightly side-by-side. Behind these stands, shoving his way past colourful costumes and an astounding array of pleasure-producing paraphernalia, he finds a set of rusty stairs heading down to a tiny doorstep.

It takes a good deal of force to get the door open. The walls inside the apartment must reverberate with the noise; he muses over the panic and fear that must be gripping the girl. He is smug in his satisfaction, watching his men kick the door in. He allows his men to go in first, and awaits the defensive – but it doesn't come.

He shoves his way into the apartment as his men scour each and every room, throwing open wardrobes and tossing aside the furniture. Books and papers and clothes are scattered everywhere, but each of his Longcoats comes up empty-handed.

"They're gone, sir," one of his men tells him, all together too obvious.

With a hard swallow, the captain tugs his gloves a little tighter in an effort to keep his control focused. To say that he dreads delivering this report to Lonot and the Sorceress is a severe understatement. "Turn this place upside down," he tells his men. "If they left any clue to where they're going, I want it found."

* * *

The journey north is long and lonely. In the darkness, there is nothing to see. Craning her neck to see out the windscreen at the road lit before them by the headlamps only keeps her attention for so long before she realizes that the road has nothing to boast but rocks and trees and bricks.

To say that she's about to lose it doesn't even come close to the whole truth. Leaving Milltown hadn't prepared her for what lay beyond the reassurance of her parents – her _nurture units. _She still hasn't managed to wrap her head around that, and will push it away for as long as she is able.

Sneaking into the city, avoiding guards; the Mystic Man's secrets and half-truths... and then the rushing and the worry to get out of the city. The old man _pretended_ to be concerned only of his own hide, that there were people after _him_. But as they'd been hastily preparing to abandon the apartment, she'd overheard the Mystic Man tell Mr. Cain that _she_ must be protected at all costs. That it was _her_ safety that was paramount.

She's to lead the way to a great treasure, which will in turn save the country from Azkadellia and end the war.

Even rethinking on it, she covers her face with her hands and sighs deeply. She's a waitress, a student, not a hero or a saviour. She can't do what they're expecting of her, she knows that even if she doesn't quite understand it all... she can't even balance the length of a fence without falling off.

"I don't like this," she says, staring out the side-window into the darkness.

"Don't like what?" Glitch asks her, turning to her with a smile. He's sandwiched between her and Raw on the bench seat, and this is the first conversation that's been struck since the vehicle started. The ominous silence doesn't sit well with her forgetful friend, and he jumps at the chance to disturb the quiet.

"I just..." she trails off and heaves another sigh. "I came here looking for my mother."

He nods, wide-eyed and innocent. "We'll find her," he says, and he believes it. She wishes she could share in his optimism, but her outlook is as bleak as the landscape outside the speeding car. "She wants you to look for her, I'll bet."

DG chews the inside of her lip for a moment, her worst fear weighing so heavily on her mind that she has to say something or go mad. "I don't think she does; she sent me away, didn't she?" She nods toward the Mystic Man in the passenger's seat beside Cain, a partition halfway up because she's supposed to be sleeping.

"Mother waits for DG," Raw says quietly. She leans forward to see past Glitch slouched between them. Raw is staring down at his hands. "Many things wait for DG."

She falls back in her seat again, crossing her arms over her chest. What is she supposed to do with all this cryptic information? She lays back against the headrest, turns away from the car to stare out the window. When the snow starts, she feels the same familiar tugging inside of her that she feels when she catches the sight of the twin suns spanning the sky.

* * *

This is a place unlike any she's ever known.

The snow that sifts down from the sky is always feather-light, no matter the winds that blow it once it reaches the ground, which can be one minute a gentle gust and the next the harshest gale.

There is something unexplainable about this cold; it touches her skin, nips at her, but doesn't seep into her skin, chill her to the bone. She feels surrounded by it but not affected by it. She can't say the same for the others; Glitch seems to have gone a funny grey colour, and Mr. Cain's fair complexion has gone from a rosy pink to an angry red tinge in his cheeks.

The road had eventually come to its inevitable end; a poor collection of winter clothes had been hastily tossed into the trunk before leaving the city, one of the pathetic preparations managed before the chase had begun again. Scarves and blankets had been shared among them, and then the trek through the snow had begun.

Over one hill, and then the next, they walk. Mr. Cain breaks a trail for them, shuffling his well-booted feet through the deep snow. The Mystic Man follows behind him, and it doesn't take long before DG gets the impression that the old man is enjoying the stroll; as she snuggles her dog against her chest to share in his warmth, she can see why he would breathe deeply, stare in joyful wonder at his surroundings. After being cooped up in the city's cramped and stuffy underbelly for so many years, the chance to see an unimpeded sky is a burst of new life.

Finally, they break out of the woods, and a long, gradual slope leads to a small land-locked sea cradled by mountains. The waters are frozen, but the deep blue hue of the ice offsets the white of the snow, showing clearly its shores. In the center of the ice sea is a towering glacier.

"Well?" the Mystic Man asks her, the smallest hint of a smile on his shivering lips.

The first tremble of cold runs through her as she stares at the glacier. _Well what?_

The trip down the hill is a slow, careful trek. Her feet slip and slide on the ice, and she and Glitch cling to each other's arms in an attempt to regain some sort of balance. She watches her little dog skitter back and forth on the ice, sliding one way and then the next as his little paws try to gain traction. He barks up at the ice mountain as if he expects it to answer him.

DG's head falls back as she stares up and up and up. The very peak of the glacier glints in the light of the rising suns. She's exhausted and her eyes are burning, but she's never felt quite so invigorated. Glitch and Raw gather next to her while Mr. Cain follows the Mystic Man straight up to the sheer wall of the ice mountain. The old man taps the wall with his cane, but it makes no sound.

"Magnificent!" he exclaims, tapping his cane again. "Truly magnificent!" He turns around to watch DG with excitement clear in his eyes. He motions for her to come forward, and she does so, nearly sliding straight into Mr. Cain in the process. He catches her by the arm and rights her.

"'Glistening white mountain'," she recites quietly to herself. The very fairytales spoken to her by her pop are true to life right before her eyes. She remembers the rest of the story, the sad and lonely queen who waits for her little girl to come home to her. But... it's just a mound of ice.

"Yes," the Mystic Man encourages her with a grin. "Open the way, your answers wait."

She frowns. "The way to your great treasure."

"No, not my great treasure," he says, and pats her shoulder. "Yours."

She looks up again, up and up. This close, she can barely make out the peak and the glare is blinding. The suns are almost completely risen, it's going to be a bright and beautiful winter morning. She shifts her head ever so slightly, and something catches her eye. The wall of ice... it creates some sort of outline, as if something is trapped underneath.

Her brow furrows. The dog stops barking, and the others fall back.

_A daughter of light came upon a glistening white mountain, frozen in time in a sea of ice. Above all else, she knew..._

She skirts the mountain, moving across the sheer ice, small steps to keep from falling. She positions herself a ways away from the others, curiosity giving into something even curiouser. She feels the tingle in her hand, not the pins-and-needles of cold fingers, but something infinitely different...

DG swallows hard. The others are muttering to themselves behind her, and the little dog has begun to whimper piteously. Glancing up again, a barrage of images flares through her mind, and she has to shut her eyes against the glare of the ice and the constant flash behind her eyes of blue-tinted glass and green marble floors and rows upon rows of pillars, an endless forest of carved white stone.

_Above all else, she knew that this mountain was more than it appeared._

The resounding, sickening crunch of breaking ice reaches her ears, and she jumps back as the first chunk of the glacier breaks free. She screams, catching the barest glimpse of her palm glowing red before shielding her head with her hands. Ice begins to rain down around her, pieces the size of her fist, her whole body, and larger. She screams again and ducks; there are shouts from behind her, Mr. Cain and Glitch are calling her name, but she's too terrified to move.

_It was... it was... _

And then the world is quiet; the deafening crack and crash of ice ending so abruptly that she wonders if she's dead. But no, Mr. Cain is calling her name again and there's a hand on her arm, helping her to her feet. Glitch wraps an arm around her shoulders, asking her again and again if she's okay. Her dog is barking frantically at her feet. The Mystic Man is laughing and applauding her.

She looks up; the glacier is gone. In its place is an enormous palace, constructed of walls of ivory and windows of blue glass.

_Home._


	8. Eight

**Author's Note**: Written for the Second Annual "Big Damn Challenge" at tm_challenge on Livejournal. Inspired by the Everworld quote: _"It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"_

**Prompts: **_Dawn, Title, Life, Shell, Choice_

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**Follow That Same Old Road**

**Eight**

She watches the stars fade, the suns rise. As the sky lightens, turns pale gold and then truest blue, she keeps her eyes trained on the horizon. Not to the east, not the mountains beyond which help the suns play their lazy peek-a-boo, no, but north.

For almost fifteen annuals, she's never given the north a second thought. Aristocrats hiding in their icy mansions, ignoring the troubles of the country as they discussed the failings of the military and lower classes to put an end to the Great Famine, the transformation of the Papay, and the fall of Central City. The Northern Guild had never stood in her way, though she'd ordered her men to take great interest in the holdings of the richest in hopes of finding the Emerald.

Now...

There is a great likelihood that the girl is heading north.

The Sorceress' most trusted scouts – more productive and loyal than the most capable of Lonot's men – have been sent to find the girl. As she waits, they scour the countryside, peek into every window, watch every road. The girl and her companions – the Mystic Man especially – will be found.

She's decided on a special end for these traitors.

_You just have to catch them first..._

She shakes her head, the corner of her lip twitching. "They will be caught and dealt with... but what if they get away? Of course they won't get away... but – no, _no_. It's too close."

She hears the footsteps coming down the hall long before her advisor announces them; her general and the captain that led the raid on the old man's apartments. She hides her rage behind a mask of loveliness; she knows she's terrifying in her calmness, that the razor-edged threat concealed in her voice is more dangerous to them than any display of power.

The men stand at her back while she stares up at the sky; they will stand for an eternity, awaiting any order she might give. She has no misgivings; she knows these men are only loyal as long as she is the most great and terrible force in the Outer Zone.

She thought she'd done everything possible to hold herself above anything that could bring her down. This close to the eclipse, it isn't possible to lose what she's gained, to fail so incredibly...

The men wait. She watches the sky, waiting for that telling black speck on the horizon. The girl will be within her reach soon, and the old man will be crushed beneath everything she can throw at him. Both are deserving of their fates.

* * *

It's as quiet as a tomb inside the palace. Her wet sneakers squeak as she crosses the floor. There is neglect in the air, and abandonment. It's barely warmer inside than out on the ice, but she's too absorbed with taking in the sights the massive hall has to offer to notice the frigid temperatures.

The group separates to explore the great hall. Glitch meanders off left while DG and Raw break right; the Mystic Man stays planted in the center of the endless room, Mr. Cain just behind him. Her dog runs wild from group to group, until he meets up with Glitch and begins to bark excitedly, his howls echoing until it sounds as if he's one of a thousand pups.

"Your journey truly begins here, child," the Mystic Man calls out, as if speaking to a grand assembly in general.

DG sighs, staring up at the vast ceiling. No one has lived here for years, and the protection of ice accumulated around the palace was a shell to shut out intruders. Has this place been waiting for her? It certainly seems so.

"Truths will reveal themselves here," the Mystic Man continues, walking a few leisurely steps with his hands clasped easily behind his back. "You need but to remember them, for they are yours to take."

She rolls her eyes at more of the same enigmatic prattle, frowning deeply as she moves slowly around the periphery of the hall. Interspersed between banners and mounted crests are portraits of men and women – mostly women – dressed in beautiful regalia. Furs and medals adorn the formal clothing; elaborate hairstyles and serious faces dominate most of the paintings. Her artist's eye takes over and she gazes long and hard at each.

She's reminded of her dream, her own notepad doodles ornately framed, something simple and real encased by something more important but less palpable.

She doesn't trust this place, this hollow, empty place.

She's not surprised when she finds a portrait of her mother, though she's not sure where the expectation comes from. What does surprise her is the man standing at her mother's back. It's the coat that throws her, in all honesty. As Glitch wanders up to her side with impeccable timing, she realizes that the straight-laced uniform in the painting is now in rags and tatters beside her, so familiar and friendly that she has to look twice.

"I don't –" she says first, and then stops. Glitch looks up at the painting, and an absent smile crosses his face.

"Huh," he says bemusedly. "Look at me, all fancy."

The others join them, the little dog coming to a sliding stop near her feet. The Mystic Man is smiling, while Raw's face is a mask of disbelief.

"My –" she starts.

"Lavender," the Mystic Man corrects. "Fifth Queen of the House of Gale."

She quirks her head to the side, too intrigued to trip over why this hadn't been mentioned sooner. She's heard too many tales about the last fifteen years to be petulant. She's going to find her mother, even if finding this great treasure is the way she has to do it.

"What else do you have to show me?"

* * *

"I know this place," the girl says quietly, as if only to herself. Her companions had all watched as she'd mounted the subtly undulating staircase, and had followed her through a twist of passages. It's at the dead-end hallway, tucked into a far north corner, that she'd stops. Her face has yet to shift from its expression of pure wonder.

"How do you know this place?" the old man asks her; from his position in the doorway, Wyatt Cain watches the entire scene with his thumbs tucked into his belt. The Viewer and headcase watch uneasily through the panes of glass, cut into curved, elongated sections by intersecting branches of pure white elm.

The bedroom is filled with the weak morning light. The girl turns in a slow circle, and when she's finished and facing the doors again, her face has changed from wonder to absolute befuddlement. She's listening hard to something, cocking her head to the side again. She turns towards the bed and covers her mouth with her hands to hide a gasp. _"Mother," _she whispers faintly, walking closer to the mammoth bed draped in protective canvas. She's staring as if she sees something, but all Cain sees is the bed and annuals worth of undisturbed dust.

Then the girl hums something, pretty and haunting but altogether inaudible. He strains her ears as she touches her cheek. "I don't remember any of this," she says, glancing up at the Mystic Man.

Cain can hear a smile in the old man's voice as he replies. "You're remembering now," he says. There's a hint of the dramatic in his words. "You must unlock –"

"Wait!" the girl exclaims, hopping to her feet. She looks to the door, but not at Cain. Her eyes are staring at something over his shoulder and then pass him by; though there is no way for him to know, she doesn't see him at all. Her eyes follow a path cut slowly across the room, and she's backing up a few steps to keep her distance from whatever she sees. The Mystic Man has fallen respectfully silent, and Cain curses what his mundane blood disallows him to see.

The girl's hands return to her mouth; there are tears glistening in her eyes as she stands frozen in place, staring at the bed. Behind him in the hallway, Raw is whimpering quietly. The loudest sound by far is the dog's paws clicking as he worries back and forth in the hallway.

"Azkadellia," the girl says suddenly, her hands falling away from her mouth. "She's my sister."

"Drawn to darkness," the Mystic Man tells her, shaking his head.

Then the girl is shaking her own head vehemently, closing her eyes and looking away from the bed. "I don't understand," she says, looking down at her hands. "I'm not dead."

Cain's inkling of the girl's true identity had been gnawing at him since leaving his cabin to guide her across the fields; her importance surpassed that of all their sorry hides put together. But still she was just a kid, undisciplined and stubborn.

Minutes pass and the kid returns to the bed. The tears that had clung to her eyelashes now spill down her cheeks. "But I died," she insists; she looks around the room and her eyes seem to see the old man once more, Cain standing in the doorway and the others in the hall. She seems to be coming out of a daze.

"Second life," the Mystic Man says. "A great gift that came at great cost."

The girl goes back to looking at her hands. "Emerald," she mutters, "I don't remember. She told me, I think."

"You'll remember," the Mystic Man tells her, and there's an encouraging smile on his lips when he turns back to Cain. For the life of him, Wyatt can't understand what the old man would have to smile about. If anything, Azkadellia's scouts are going to notice that the palace has been awakened; they've already lingered too long.

The girl will have plenty of time to chew all this over on the journey out of the north.

* * *

The prisoner does not eat. The prisoner does not sleep. The prisoner only watches an unending, unchanging sky, waiting for the next inevitable meeting. The visits come with no regularity; at times her captor comes demanding information, at other times approaches her with kindness and promises. All for naught.

The sound of the Sorceress' arrival echoes through the high-domed glass chamber. She holds something in her gloved hands, which she immediately gives to her prisoner. There is no readable expression on the face of the Sorceress, but her prisoner manages that feat infinitely better, and with a grace to be envied.

Her first reaction is a gasp; what she holds in her bare hands is _cold_. Though desert sands shift about her feet endlessly, her prison is neither hot nor cold; there is no effect to the weather unless the Sorceress deems it so. But this... _this_. Her heart leaps in her chest as she turns the piece of ice in her hands. It does not melt, does not diminish, only gleams brightly beneath the perpetual high-noon sky.

She doesn't question what it is, or where it came from. She recognizes the piece of protective shell as easily as she'd recognize a part of herself. She sees the beautifully curved edges; this was not broken off. The Northern Island has been opened.

"Did you find what you sought?" the prisoner asks, waiting with bated breath for a response.

"My Xora brought that to me this morning," the Sorceress says, a wry smile curving her pretty lips. "All the way to the farthest north and back again. Imagine that."

"You disparage her because you've forgotten her."

"She _won't_ succeed," the Sorceress says forcefully. "I will kill her myself, _again_. You've honestly made all this too easy for me, mother."

The queen closes her lavender eyes, so very tired.

"The old man has come out of his exile of annuals to help her," the Sorceress informs her prisoner. The queen has only the smallest reply in the form of a willowy sigh. "His death won't taste nearly as sweet as your precious angel's." When still the queen doesn't react, the Sorceress squares her shoulders, the draping fabric of her black gown pooling at her feet. "Lonot has gone to intercept the brat," she says, and there is a malicious glint in her eyes. "She'll follow that same old road south as she did north, and my men lie in wait. You'll see your darling little girl again before the suns set."

The queen shudders inwardly, though the entirety of her focus is centered on maintaining the hardened appearance she's given her captor through the annuals of her incarceration. She will not show emotion, she will not break. She won't give that last satisfaction in the destruction of herself.

* * *

"You are the only one," he says. Insists.

The girl wants to see where it's written in stone. She doesn't realize that somewhere it _is,_ though that location is unknown to the living generations of the Outer Zone.

She fumes and paces; he stands easily in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. "We're wasting time," he tells her; she knows it, and glares at him for pressing her. Nothing on this journey will be clear to her unless she remembers, but her first memory was so strong and so upsetting that she's baulking at going on.

"I can't fight a witch! I'm just... just, well –"

The old man rolls his eyes. "You witnessed the power of your bloodline, of your sister and mother! Your light is remarkably strong, child!" He smiles at her, and gestures around him. "The palace was _waiting_ for you to reawaken it," he says. "Gods, did you think it was coincidence that brought the ice down the moment of your return?"

She's at a loss for words; she doesn't understand this _light_ he keeps mentioning, and she can't defend herself against it. All she knows is that she's got a tattoo on her palm that decides for itself when to shine, and that she's having a hard time swallowing all the explanations that life continues to throw at her.

"You've lost a lot before you knew you had it," the Mystic Man says when it becomes clear that she isn't going to give into him and his attempts to get her talking. "There is more yet to discover, but everything here is frozen."

She looks around at the forsaken bedroom. She realizes now why she was sent away, and has seen a glimpse that her mother truly loved her. Thinking about those who wait for them downstairs, the old man knows that the girl won't be the only person searching for something lost during the war. He doesn't know if that will still be the case when the child learns the whole truth; he can only hope.

"Your mother means for you to take the Emerald and stop your sister," he says with a great deal of finality. "Will you help the O.Z., or am I sending you back to your colourless, humdrum life as if all this was a dream?"

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You can do that?"

He refuses to answer, and as turn-about is fair play, she thinks about it. There's no question that there's nothing to go back to. It leaves her with no choice but to go forward, but she doesn't know where she's supposed to go from here. Azkadellia's war has destroyed most other paths previously open to her; did her mother long ago intend to be here _waiting_, to help and guide?

No, she's known it all along; finding the Emerald will mean finding her mother.

"So, where are we going?" she asks the Mystic Man, who grins.

"South. I've got a vague idea, but I'll wait for you to tell me yourself, my dear. Shall we?"


End file.
